


Telling Old Hunger Games Tales

by katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2018-10-28 12:45:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10831557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: “But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!” “Ah, that’ll be nice,” says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. “You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales.”A collection of canon compliant drabbles and shorter pieces. Chapter 1 serves as a table of contents with descriptions, ratings, and warnings. Ratings will range from General Audiences to Explicit.





	1. Table of Contents

  1. **_TABLE OF CONTENTS:_**



 

To make it a little easier to find what you’re looking for, I’m using the first chapter as a table of contents. If something is listed her in the Table of Contents but not yet posted, it will be uploaded within the next few days. Trying not to overwhelm your inboxes. ;-)

 

All pieces contained within this work are Everlark unless otherwise noted. All pieces are canon compliant and under 5,000 words long. Summaries, ratings, warnings, source of inspiration, and word counts are included in all descriptions.

 

What you will not find here: stories written for organized challenges or special collections such as Prompts in Panem, Love in Panem, THG Write Me a Story, or Stories to Save Lives. Those are posted as stand alone pieces.

 

Thanks for reading! <KDNFB

* * *

 

  1. **_Troubled Waters_**



Post-Mockinjay canon compliant, written for the Everlark Drabble Challenge with the prompt: Inspired by the Simon and Garfunkel song _Bridge Over Troubled Waters._ 526 Words. Written September 2014. **WARNINGS:** RATED T, allusions to character deaths, violence, and torture

 

  1. **_First Date Jitters_**



Katniss and Peeta greet their daughter’s first date. Canon-esque, Post Epilogue, all fluff. 654 Words. Written October 2014. **WARNINGS:** RATED K, no warnings

 

  1. **_Sketches By Moonlight_**



Canon compliant, post- _Mockingjay_ . Written for flying-carpet based on a request for Peeta drawing Katniss. 1,111 Words. Written December 2014. **WARNINGS:** RATED T, mild sensual content and nudity, reference to torture

 

  1. **_Warm My Weary Feet_**



Canon compliant, post- _Mockingjay_ . Written as a Christmas present for lifeloveanddance, who requested Everlark comforting each other after a long day. All fluff and stuff. 2,266 Words. Written January 2015. **WARNINGS:** RATED K, no other warnings

 

  1. **_What I Just Did_**



Canon compliant, within _Mockingjay_ timeline, Peeta POV. Written based on a dialogue prompt “didn’t you see what I did?” _1,098 Words. Written June 2015._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, allusions to wartime violence, character death, torture...it’s hijacked, Peeta. What do you expect?

 

  1. **_Almost Lost You_**



Canon compliant, post- _Mockingjay._ Based on a dialogue prompt, “I almost lost you.” Katniss loses track of time in the woods and Peeta nearly loses his mind. _3,378 Words. Written June 2015._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, no other warnings.

 

  1. **_I’m Pregnant_**



Canon compliant, post - _Mockingjay_ . The title is self-explanatory, it’s based on a dialogue prompt. _744 Words. Written June 2015._ **WARNINGS:** Rated T, no other warnings.

 

  1. **_Pregnancy Cravings_**



Canon compliant, post- _Mockingjay_ . Based on the dialogue prompt, “Hey! I was gonna eat that!” _911 Words. Written June 2015._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, no other warnings.

 

  1. **_Dreams Cut Short_**



Canon compliant, within the _Mockingjay_ timeline. Based on a prompt for an “I missed you kiss.” _445 Words. Written December 2015._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T for references to torture.

 

  1. **_Caught Off Guard_**



Canon compliant, post Mockingjay. Based on a prompt for a “caught off guard kiss.” _657 Words. Written December 2015._ **WARNINGS:** RATED K, mostly fluffy so no real warnings.

 

  1. **_Champagne Kisses_**



Canon compliant, missing scene from Peeta’s POV, _Catching Fire_ timeline, prompted by lovesbiggerthanpride to write #13. Kiss on the neck. 1 _,499 Words. Written January 2016._ **WARNINGS** : RATED T for angst ahoy!

 

  1. **_Under the Apple Tree_**



Canon compliant, post-Epilogue, prompted by Anonymous to write #27. Kiss on the naughty bits. _1,875 Words. Written April 2016_ . **WARNINGS:** RATED M for sexual content.

 

  1. **_The Mundane Little Things_**



Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay but pre-Epilogue, based on a dialogue prompt, “The paint is supposed to go _where_ ?!?!” _2,866 Words. Written May 2016._ **WARNINGS:** RATED E for sexual content.

 

  1. **_Not Yet_**



Odesta!! Canon compliant piece from Annie’s POV, follows Annie through a series of dreams and events within the Mockingjay timeline. I am not responsible if you cry. Okay, maybe I am… _2,288 Words. Written May 2016._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, no other warnings but lots of angst

 

  1. **_Some Walks You Don’t Have to Take Alone_**



Canon compliant, post- _Mockingjay_ but pre-Epilogue, based on a request for a drabble with Peeta or Katniss comforting each other. _1,716 Words. Written July 2016._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, no other warnings.

  1. **_Cagamosis_**



Canon compliant, within the _Mockingjay_ timeline. Cagamosis - an unhappy marriage. _455 Words. Written August 2016._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, it’s angsty. You’ve been warned.

 

  1. **_Mamihlapinatapei_**



Canon compliant, post- _Mockingjay._ Mamihlapinatapei - the look between two people who love each other but who are unwilling to make the first move. Haymitch POV but it’s technically still Everlark. _1,073 Words. Written August 2016._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T+ for implied sexual content, no actual smut. Also some swear words.

 

  1. **_A Thousand and One Kisses_**



Canon compliant, Peeta POV following every Everlark kiss. An experiment in 2nd person narration. Basorexia: an overwhelming urge to kiss. _4,619 Words. Written August 2016._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T+ for references to canon typical violence, torture, angst, and implied sexual content

 

  1. **_Once Upon a Winter’s Morn_**



Canon compliant, post- _Mockingjay_ , written December 2016 for Love in Panem’s Winter Challenge based on the prompt “Snow” as well as an inbox request for a drabble involving Everlark and hot chocolate. _2,490 Words. Written December 2016._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, brief dealings in depression and PTSD, nothing too angsty.

 

  1. **_Into the Woods_**



Canon compliant, post- _ Mockingjay _ , written May 2017 for everlarkbirthdaydrabbles based on the prompt “Katniss takes Peeta into the woods.”  _ 1,631 Words. Written May 2017.  _ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, brief dealings in depression and PTSD, nothing too angsty.


	2. Troubled Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Mockinjay canon compliant, written for the Everlark Drabble Challenge with the prompt: Inspired by the Simon and Garfunkel song Bridge Over Troubled Waters. 526 Words. Written September 2014. 
> 
> WARNINGS: RATED T, allusions to character deaths, violence, and torture

The steady trickle of the shower isn’t enough. She can still hear the shouting, the explosions. The rapid staccato of gunfire. Her nostrils are filled with the putrid smells of blood and burning flesh. The cold water does not erase the pain of the flames. Sitting on the shower floor, knees pulled tight to her chest as she hugs herself, she wonders if the silence of the falling snow outside would have been better after all.

 

A soft knock on the door makes her head snap up, to stare at the offender daring to intrude.

 

_ Peeta _

 

She wants to call out to him, to reach out her hand. But water is streaming into her eyes and no matter how hard she blinks, she still can’t see if she’s allowed to ask him to stay yet.

 

“Katniss?” He calls out quietly. The shower door opens and he steps in - fully clothed as she is - sits beside her, and pulls her into his side. His left hip and shoulder press to hers as they face opposite walls. It’s a defensive position, and she understands. They’re guarding against the dangers once again. No arena. Only the memories.

 

Tears join the streams of water coursing down her face. Her body shakes with silent sobs as he wraps his arms around her tightly. She leans to rest her cheek on his shoulder, watches as his hair is soaked, the waves drooping around his ears. Water streams over the scars stretching up his neck, dangerously close to his eyes. Those eyes remain open and sad, grow red with tears she can’t see while they sit in the shower. But she knows they’re there.

 

When the shivering starts, he reaches up to turn the knob, making the water warm but not hot. Never hot. As her body leeches warmth from him and the new water temperature, she finds her voice.

 

“It’s snowing.” She falls silent for a long time before she can speak again. “It was snowing that day.” He merely nods, not needing her to tell him which day she means. He can still feel the flames, too.

 

Spring had been the worst. The newness of loss, birthdays in May, blooming primroses…

Summer brought with it memories of Reapings and Games and Arenas…

Fall came with darkness and thoughts of mines in candy-coated streets…

Winter brings the snow…

 

She wonders if she will ever be able to enjoy any of the seasons again.

 

They sit in the shower until the water runs cold once more. Then Peeta stands, turns the water off and sweeps her up into his arms. He towels her off first, himself while she’s cocooned in the towels. Then he fetches dry clothes for her and once she’s dressed, rubs his hands over her body to bring back warmth. After he lays her on the bed and tucks her in, he leaves for just a moment to change his own clothes. When he comes back, she’s singing a lullaby, one he’s heard before. She reaches out a hand to him and pulls him down onto the bed beside her.

The singing drowns out the silence of the falling snow.


	3. First Date Jitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta greet their daughter’s first date. Canon-esque, Post Epilogue, all fluff. 654 Words. Written October 2014. 
> 
> WARNINGS: RATED K, no warnings

When the boy knocks on the door, the parents are ready. The father opens the door and stands, feet spread, arms crossed.

 

“And you are?” he asks in a bored tone. Of course, he knows exactly who the boy is. This is a show. The mother and the father are familiar with putting on a good show.

 

“I’m—uh—I’m Basil. Is Willow here?”

 

The father eyes him a moment, cold blue eyes piercing gray. “Depends on why you’re asking, Basil.”

 

“Dad,” comes an exaggerated huff from behind him. Relief floods the boy’s face. “I told you about Basil yesterday. And again this morning.” She’s wearing a pretty green dress, her black hair in an intricate braid her mother taught her yesterday. Her eyes that match her father’s are full of reproach. She imitates her father’s stance, crossing her arms and scowling at him. The father’s lips twitch at the familiar scowl.

 

She learned that from her mother, too.

 

He steps aside, giving the boy just enough room to pass and enter the house.

 

“Hey,” the boy whispers to the girl. “I brought you, um flowers. Yeah, I brought you flowers.” He hands over a simple bouquet of meadow blooms and the girl smiles, takes them from his hands and sniffs.

 

“They’re beautiful. I’ll just go put them in some water.” She turns and heads to the kitchen. “Behave yourself, Daddy.”

 

The father remains unmoving, watching the young man twitch and sweat. “So, I’ll bring Willow home before ten and uh—we’re just going dancing. Public place,” the boy stammers and trails off under the scrutiny of the father.

 

“You should meet Mrs. Mellark first,” the father says when the girl returns. She glares at her father, and seeing the determined look in his eyes, finally heaves a sigh.

 

“Fine! But then we’re leaving. And I am mad at you both,” she grumbles. Then she grabs a now petrified looking Basil’s hand and drags him towards the parlor. Lamps give the room a soft welcoming glow, the simple furniture, made by District 12 hands and not the Capitol, gives the room a cozy feeling. Until you see the mother, that is…

 

The boy gulps as the girl brings them to a halt in front of an arm chair where the mother sits, dressed in simple pants and shirt. Her black hair is streaked with gray, but there is no mistaking the sharp gray eyes that examine the boy, the signature braid, or the wooden bow she’s polishing. A full quiver of arrows leans against the leg of the chair beside her.

 

“Mom, Basil. Basil, my Mother,” the girl spits out.

 

“Nice to meet you, Basil,” the mother says in a smoky voice that isn’t quite a threat, but has the boy shaking a little and swallowing again before he can answer. 

 

“It’s an honor, Mrs. Mellark.”

 

The mother nods to the girl. “You know the rules. Have a pleasant evening.”

 

The girl scoffs and turns on her heel, taking the boy with her. The mother never stops watching them or the steady strokes of polishing her bow. When the front door slams behind the boy and the girl, the mother starts laughing and the father breaks into a wide grin.

 

“What happened to the knife?” the mother stands and walks over to the hall to embrace the father. He runs his hands over her back, shoulders shaking with mirth.

 

“I thought you and your bow were intimidating enough. No need to terrify the boy.”

 

The mother smiles up at the father. “You think we went too far?”

 

“Nah,” he shrugs and steps back from her. “Besides, they still have to walk past Haymitch and Johanna’s house. And I may have told them earlier today that Willow had a date tonight.”

 

The mother leans up and presses a kiss to his lips, holding his cheeks between her palms. “I’m starting to feel a little sorry for the kid.”


	4. Sketches by Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay. Written for flying-carpet based on a request for Peeta drawing Katniss. 1,111 Words. Written December 2014. 
> 
> WARNINGS: RATED T, mild sensual content and nudity, reference to torture

A fragrant, late summer breeze dances with gauzy, cream curtains. Moonlight streams through the open window upon a peaceful domestic scene. A pair of lovers ensconced in cool cotton sheets, an ugly yellow cat curled at their feet. Glowing eyes mark the passage of the stars and the steady inhale-exhale of the couple. Every few minutes, his tail swishes.

 

The boy’s foot twitches and the cat turns watchful eyes on him. A second, more violent twitch and the cat creeps carefully up the bed, perches atop the chest now heaving in labored breaths. The boy’s eyes fly open and hands grip the sheets, perspiration beading on his pale forehead.

 

_ Mreow _

 

With a deep sigh, the boy regains control of his breathing, a hand reaches out to gently pet the cat between the ears.

 

“Hey, Buttercup. Just another nightmare.” The cat responds with a deep purr as the boy continues stroking his fur. “Let’s go back to sleep, buddy.”

 

After resettling into a more comfortable position, the boy waits for the cat to paw at his chest and scratch at the sheets before finally settling down. The cat gives the boy an imperious look and the boy chuckles.

 

“I know, I know,” he says as he resumes massaging the cat behind the ears and under the chin. “So demanding.”

 

They lay like that long minutes, the boy’s eyes trained on the ceiling other than the occasional glance at the girl beside him. When the cat tilts his head and meows expectantly, the boy shushes him. “There’s no need to wake her. She’s here. She’s safe.” The cat dips his head, as though in understanding and stands, leaping nimbly to the floor and then up onto the dresser where he settles next to a book with loose sheets of parchment shoved between the pages.

 

“You know what, Buttercup. That’s a good idea,” he says as he sits up and turns on the bedside lamp, looking behind him to make sure he didn’t disturb the girl. She sighs in her sleep but otherwise remains motionless.

 

Swinging his one leg to the floor, the boy shifts and braces the stump that ends just above his knee on the bed. A look of great concentration creases his face as he leverages himself into a pseudo standing position. He reaches for the book, the cat pawing it off the dresser and into his outstretched hand. Collapsing back on the mattress, the boy eyes the pencil still on the dresser, but the cat picks it up in his mouth and returns with it to the bed.

 

“Thanks, buddy,” the boy says as the cat drops the pencil in his lap and arches his back to receive the praise accompanied by a good scratching.

 

They settle back in the bed, the cat in his spot at the foot, the boy with the book opened on his lap, pencil scratching across the page in hurried strokes. A distorted face takes shape beneath his hand, cruel eyes and a pair of thin lips as blood drips down the walls in the background. He drops his pencil and grasps his hair with both hands. The cat creeps back up and examines the page, hissing at the image as the boy rocks back and forth, whispering words.

 

“Start with what you know. My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m nineteen years old. My home is District Twelve. I was in the Hunger Games but I survived. The Capitol took me as a prisoner…”

As the words pour forth, the cat shifts gears and climbs over the girl, pawing at her shoulders and batting her face with loud meows. She swats back as she slowly surfaces from sleep.

 

“Go away, Buttercup,” she mumbles. The cat hisses at her and she wakes fully, notices the boy hunched over and tugging on his hair.

 

Rising to her knees, she inches close to him and wraps her arms around him, pulls one hand from his hair and twines those fingers with hers. She glances down at the sketch book in his lap and scowls darkly, but waits until he finishes his list.

 

“Real or not real?” she whispers.

 

“I think it’s real,” he croaks, staring down at the page.

 

“Well,” she says, sliding it from his lap and holding it up for them both to see clearly. “While this is still better than waking up with a knife in your hand…”

 

He snorts in jaded laughter and she smiles.

 

“Maybe something more cheerful?” She flips the page and hands the sketch book back to him. The cat resettles at the foot of the bed as the girl scoots away, still on her knees and pulls her night shirt over her head, tossing it aside.

 

The boy bites his cheek and drinks in her form, bathed in the soft light of the lamp. She lays down on her side and watches him with luminous gray eyes, waving her hand in a motion meant to break his reverie and spur him into action.

 

With a slight nod, he sets to drawing her, hand flying over the parchment, eyes darting up at irregular intervals.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks after several minutes have passed and the creases in his face have disappeared.

 

He’s silent a moment as he continues to draw. The cat’s tail swishes again.

 

“I don’t know who he is. I’ve seen him in my nightmares a few times, though. Always the same. Pain, blood, fear. It’s like part of my mind locked away his face, but forgot it with all the other poison they filled it with. Almost as though they didn’t want me to remember him. But now that we’ve sorted through so much of the mess…”

 

She says nothing, tracing patterns on the sheet with her fingers as she thinks. Or perhaps afraid her words will make him stop, retreat.

 

The cat purrs, the boy draws, and the girl watches. The stars begin to fade, the inky darkness of the sky shifting to indigo, streaked with lavender and vibrant pink. Birds begin to sing before he sits up, a smile on his face.

 

“Can I see?”

 

He flips the book to display the image. The cat rests his chin on his paws as the girl smiles, her skin brushed golden in the early morning light.

 

“You made me beautiful,” she whispers.

 

The boy shakes his head and places the book carefully on the bedside table. “I did nothing but draw what’s real.”

 

With a sly grin, the girl reaches out and grasps his shirt, pulls him down until their lips are joined. Outside, the sun rises in a fiery blaze of orange.


	5. Warm My Weary Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay. Written as a Christmas present for lifeloveanddance, who requested Everlark comforting each other after a long day. All fluff and stuff. 2,266 Words. Written January 2015. 
> 
> WARNINGS: RATED K, no other warnings

Reluctant to leave the peace of her woods, Katniss lingers longer than she should. The winter has been harsh to Twelve, and despite the fall of the Capitol last year, people are going hungry. Not like it had been before the Games, at least. No late night wails when yet another starved body was discovered in the streets or healers prescribing what could not be given, but there were still hollow nights. Train lines from other districts weren’t completely reliable yet, so they were frequently on their own. They had enough to survive, but not enough to thrive.

 

Hefting her heavy game bag, she trudges through the rapidly deepening snow back towards the fence. She’s taught a few others how to hunt, but in an effort to not decimate the resources available in the woods, she limited the number. They hunt in pairs in other parts of the woods. She hunts here, alone.

 

Somehow, the Victor winnings continued to arrive every month. When she’d found the courage to ask Thom, the newly elected mayor of Twelve, he’d simply answered that it was agreed upon by the new government. Panem could afford to compensate the few remaining Victors for all they’d done and suffered.

 

The sentiment made both her and Peeta uncomfortable.

 

But it quickly became apparent that they could still do some good with their blood money. He rebuilt the bakery and most of the other town businesses, insisting to the new owners or few returning townspeople that it was an investment, not charity. She sent her money to other districts who had no more living Victors. She had a feeling Haymitch sent most of his off along with hers. It wasn’t much once divided into so many pieces, but what else were they supposed to do with it?

 

A friendly greeting rings out as she reaches the gate in the new, not electrified fence surrounding the district and she smiles tiredly.

 

“Better be getting home, Miss Everdeen. Looks to be taking a turn for the worse.”

 

“Thanks, Wilbert,” she says as she digs in her bag for a rabbit. Then she hands over the meat and waves away Wilbert’s gratitude. “You should do the same. That’ll make a nice stew.”

 

With a nod of his head, he secures the gates and follows her silently back towards town.

 

Her socks have grown damp with snow, and she thinks longingly of warming them by the fire, but she’s got a few more stops to make. The newly installed street lamps lend a soft glow to the town as she traverses the streets. Wilbert bids her a goodnight before turning the corner towards his house and she continues alone, ignoring the aches in her body starting to demand her attention.

 

After dropping most of the meat with Greasy Sae for further distribution, she takes the little she has left and hoofs her way towards Victor Village. Lights emanate from most of the twelve houses. She makes her rounds, trying to keep a smile on her face as she delivers fresh meat. Those that have something to trade take the time to barter with her. The others provide a few minutes friendly conversation.

 

She wishes they’d all stop. All she wants now is to get home and fall in bed.

 

Finally, she’s done. With just a couple squirrels, some winter greens, and a rabbit left in her sack, she climbs the stairs and grips the knob. She stands there, though, staring at the festive bundle of corn hanging from her front door. Peeta must have hung the harvest wreath today. She still hadn’t decided if it was a good idea to continue with their holidays and traditions from before. But then she catches the faint sounds of music from inside the house, and she remembers that the harvest festival also meant music and dancing and light.

 

With this thought centered in her mind, she opens the door. The tantalizing scent of fresh baked bread emanates from the kitchen, which is also the source of the lively reel. He must have the radio on tonight. Which means he had a rough day at the bakery.

 

Stomping the snow from her boots, she hangs her coat and scarf, tucking her gloves into the coat pocket before treading softly to the kitchen. His back is to her as he chops a few carrots, his blond hair damp, indicating that he showered when he got home, and his foot taps the beat of the music on the wood floor. A smile teases the corner of her mouth and she clears her throat.

 

Peeta turns a little and smiles at her.

 

“Hey. I was starting to get a little worried about you. Snow’s picking up out there.”

 

“I noticed,” she says.  With a tilt of her head, she presents the squirrel and the rabbit.

 

“Perfect. Roast rabbit it is. We can save the squirrel for tomorrow.”

 

“Haymitch coming over?” she asks as she washes her hands in the sink. She tarries a moment, letting the water bring some warmth back into her fingers. She vigorously rubs them dry and watches Peeta prep the rabbit before spreading the vegetables around it in the pan and sliding the whole thing in the oven.

 

“No,” he answers, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I stopped by his place on my way home from the bakery, though. Made sure he had something other than liquor for dinner. I really wish he’d start coming over again.”

 

“Yeah,” she says with a wide yawn. “Me too.”

 

They fall silent a moment, the only noise in the room the music. She can’t keep his gaze and looks away, unwilling to start complaining. She’s so tired and worried and frightened that things won’t change. What if everyone starves anyways?

 

Peeta clears his throat and leans against the kitchen counter. “How was your day in the woods?”

 

“Fine,” she answers automatically. “And you? Everything good at the bakery?”

 

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile. “Why don’t we go sit for a minute while the rabbit’s roasting?”

 

Once in the sitting room, they collapse on the couch. He’s barely settled with his prosthetic on the cushions, his other foot on the floor before she’s stretched between his legs, burrowing against his chest and burying her face in his throat. Peeta says nothing, just starts rubbing her back in gentle motions.

 

Squeezing her eyes shut, Katniss tries not to be overwhelmed by the fear.

 

“Maybe we could trade the squirrels. Instead of keeping them,” she says tightly. “Can you think of anyone that might need more?”

 

“The Fischers. Just had a baby, their third, and he broke his leg working at the factory construction site.”

 

She nods and relaxes a little.

 

“We’re doing what we can, Katniss. Everyone is. It’s pretty incredible actually.”

 

Peeta talks for a few minutes about the town news. Stories of those who have enough leaving anonymous gifts for those going without, or providing help then leaving before the subject of payment even arises. She knows that Peeta, like many, engages in highly lopsided trades, undervaluing his goods. Families that once could never dream of having anything other than drop biscuits made from course tesserae rations now find themselves eating hearty grains. Breads teeming with nuts and raisins, swirled with cinnamon or dill. The thoughts remind her of another bread given without expectation and she lifts her head to smile at him.

 

“You think we’ll make it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Peeta answers honestly. “But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying.”

 

Katniss nods and shifts, her damp feet bothering her. “So you really did have an okay day?”

 

“Yeah, I suppose I did. I mean, it’s upsetting to see families in trouble, but there’s so many good things happening, too.”

 

In the hall, the clock chimes and Peeta looks up, his face contorting a little.

 

“Medicine?” she questions, and he nods, setting her gently aside to stand.

 

“Be right back,” he says, slipping upstairs to take his row of pills.

 

He’d explained them to her once, shortly after she told him there was no reason for them to occupy two massive houses. He’d understood her meaning, and the following week, all of his belongings were in their house, his now full to bursting with two Seam families who’d just returned from Thirteen. The laughter of their children was a welcome gift.

 

But the pills were just a reality of their life now. She couldn’t keep them straight, only knew that Dr. Aurelius was slowly lowering the dosages, in the hopes that soon, Peeta wouldn’t need them at all.

 

While he’s gone, she peels off her boots and socks. She winces with the sting of the warm air on her feet and the blue tinge of her skin. Taking one between her hands, she rubs, but the friction hurts more than helps. With a yelp, she puts them down and wraps a blanket around them as Peeta returns.

 

“You okay?”

 

She nods a little too quickly and he eyes her suspiciously.

 

“Fine. I’m not okay. My feet got a little wet.”

 

He tears the blanket away and examines her feet.

 

“A  _ little _ wet?”

 

“Alright, a lot wet,” she snaps.

 

Gingerly, he sits next to her and lifts one into his lap.

 

“What do you need? Besides thicker socks and less stubbornness?”

 

Scowling at him, she tries to pull her foot back, but his grip on her ankle forbids it.

 

“To warm them up, bossy. Slowly. Because otherwise it hurts.” Her voice cracks a little on the last word and Peeta glares at her.

 

Without commenting, he lifts his shirt and slides her bare feet underneath. She cries out, the heat of his skin burning through hers. When she tries to pull back, he wraps his arms around his middle, pinning her feet to his abdomen. Tears prick at her eyes, but the look on his face prevents her from letting them spill.

 

She bites her lip and returns the glare, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her pain. Peeta’s lips twitch for a second and laughter sparks in his eyes. But he doesn’t smile. He continues to stare her down as daggers slice through her feet.

 

Gradually, the pain recedes, replaced with a dull ache laced with a tingling. And heat. She tries to bend her knees, to retreat. Peeta won’t let her. With a shake of his head, he tightens his hold.

“I know you want to feed the whole district, Katniss, but you can’t do that if you hurt yourself out there. I’ll ask Delly to make you some thicker socks and new boots.”

 

“I don’t need new boots,” she snarls, tugging her feet once more without success.

 

“Then you’re being too stubborn.”

 

“No. I’m not,” she insists, crossing her arms over her chest. He shakes his head at her.

 

“And if you’d gotten frost bite?”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“Nearly did,” he says, fire lighting his eyes.

 

The anger she sees steals her breath and her words.

 

Peeta sighs and closes his eyes a moment, still not relinquishing her feet.

 

“Remember when we were rebuilding the bakery? And I wasn’t sleeping much.”

 

She nods, then tells him she does when she realizes he can’t see her.

 

“You were mad at me for weeks. And rightly so. It took me a while to figure out why. But it’s the same reason I’m mad at you now.”

 

She can feel her mouth form an “o” as realization dawns.

 

“Just promise me you’ll take better care of yourself,” he whispers, opening one eye to peek at her.

 

“Okay,” she gives him a small nod and what she hopes is a contrite look.

 

He loosens his hold on her, but she finds that she doesn’t want to move now. Wiggling her toes, she absorbs warmth from him. He smiles, transforming his face and sending heat through her chest and belly. He shifts his hands to grasp her feet and starts to massage them. Katniss groans at how wonderful it feels, having him rub away the remaining cold and the pain. She rests her cheek on the back of the couch and surrenders to the sensations.

 

In the kitchen, the radio plays a ballad, one that she knows. Without thinking about it, she starts to sing softly. When the song ends a moment later, Peeta stops rubbing her feet. She opens her eyes to look at him and nearly bursts with the expression on his face.

 

The tune shifts again to something faster. It takes her a moment to recognize the dance tune, but when she does, she gets a crazy idea. Yanking her feet from his grasp, she stands and bows to Peeta.

 

“May I have this dance, Mr. Mellark?”

 

He stands and takes her hands in answer. “Anything for you, Miss Everdeen.”

 

They spin around the room, the ache of her feet and the hungry souls momentarily forgotten. The drums and fiddles course through her. They dance until she’s breathless and laughing, until a small wince breaks Peeta’s smile and alerts her that his leg has had enough. As the song ends, he spins her once more before she falters and tumbles them to the couch. He’s panting and smiling, beads of sweat starting to form at his temples.

 

Knowing she must be flushed, she grins and curls into his arms as they catch their breath. Another song plays in the kitchen and he starts to toy with the end of her braid. Tomorrow will be another chance to fix their world. Today, she just wants him to warm her weary feet.


	6. What I Just Did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, within Mockingjay timeline, Peeta POV. Written based on a dialogue prompt “didn’t you see what I did?” 1,098 Words. Written June 2015. WARNINGS: RATED T, allusions to wartime violence, character death, torture...it’s hijacked, Peeta. What do you expect?

I dig my nails into my scalp. What’s left of them at least, since the doctors in Thirteen have been fastidious about keeping them short. All the way down to the beds. Can’t give a monster like me any sort of weapon. Not even a built in one like fingernails. Although it seems they forgot a few things. Legs and feet. Arms. Strength.

 

_ Peeta’s strong. He can throw a hundred pound sack of flour over his head. _

 

_ Liar. Mutt. _

Spastic flashes of Katniss on the ground crawling away from me, a shocked look on her face, play across the back of my eyes, interspersed with a girl screaming for mercy…from District 8 maybe? The first Games? Cato flying through air into a tree along with Katniss wreathed in shimmering flames and snarling at me, pointing an arrow at my heart. I dig my nails in deeper.

 

_ No. I’m the mutt. _

 

I shudder, fighting back memory and nightmare both. The cuffs on my wrist give soft, metallic clanks as I rock a little, and keep the rest of the squad blocked from view. Most of them are searching for food, but a few have remained to guard me. Because I’m a fucking monster.

 

The sofa dips beside me, announcing the presence of another human and I tense even further, wound so tight my muscles ache. I can feel the arch of my foot starting to seize and cramp in my boot. Why wouldn’t they just give me one of those poison pills? It’d make things easier for everyone. Then the Games would finally be over.

 

“Hey,” a shoulder nudges mine, dislodging my hands from my scalp and making them fall to rest on my knees, handcuffs jingling like some kind of twisted melody of violence and betrayal. “She’s not gonna let any of us kill you, you know.”

 

“Why the hell not?” I snap and look over at Finnick, hoping that I’m giving him my craziest mutt stare. I don’t want to talk to him right now. I’m grateful for the gift of the rope the other night, but we are not friends. Barely even allies anymore. “Didn’t you see what I just did?”

 

Finnick nods his face thoughtful and serious.

 

“I saw, Peeta. And I heard you talk to her at the camp the other night, too,” Finnick shifts in his seat, rubbing his hands over the shaft of his trident, the tines pointed towards the ceiling, so it spins back and forth. Back and forth. He looks like he’s deciding something. “She’s been a mess, by the way. Ever since the Quell. And I should know, because I was in the same situation as her.”

 

That gets my attention. Looking deep into Finnick’s eyes, I see a flicker of hurt, panic, desperation.  _ Annie _ , I think. He’s talking about Annie. But then, does that mean…?

 

“So take a few deep breaths and try to forgive yourself. Keep fighting this thing. We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of for the Games or because of Snow,” Finnick says.

 

I do as he suggests, pulling several breaths of stale air, rancid with the stench of the tar wave from earlier and look past Finnick into the next room, where Katniss is talking quietly with a few members of the squad, including Gale. They seem to be discussing the food stuffs cradled in their arms. For just a second, her eyes dart over and find mine. There’s a flash of something in their storm cloud depths before she blinks rapidly a few times and looks away. I drop my eyes back to my cuffed wrists and the red marks on my skin beneath the glinting silver metal binds. Maybe Finnick is right. And maybe he is wrong. I don’t know.

 

Certainty and hope are not two things I can indulge in right now.

 

The squad returns and spreads a bounty of canned foods on the floor. Finnick leaves my side to search out his own meal as Katniss and the others agree we should just dig in and not worry about counting calories. I’m grateful and drop to the floor, rolling over a few cans before I find a label that snares my attention and holds it. _ Lamb Stew. _

 

I’m assailed with memories of laughter and shy smiles and welcome rain in hopeless darkness. Soft brushes of lips and fingers on cheeks. And fear, yes fear. But fear that I’d lose her. It’s familiar and warm somehow. Fits over my shoulders better than the warped rage and shining terror I’ve lived in for I don’t even know how long anymore.

 

_ You don’t have much competition anywhere. _

 

My heart starts to hammer and my lungs are doing that funny thing that happens right before I lose it. But there’s something new, too. A buzzing euphoria at the base of my skull that slowly skips over my skin and down to my fingertips. I grip the can tightly and keep my eyes open, staring at the veins that protrude on my wrists while I squeeze, pulling against the cuffs until it hurts, willing the shiny edges to retreat and leave only the happiness.

 

_ Real or not real? _

 

Looking up, I find Katniss right beside me, sifting through her options. Relaxing as my heart and breathing return to normal, I take a risk and hold the can of lamb stew out towards her.

 

“Here,” I say. She looks over at the food first, then at me with her implacable face. The one she wore to Reapings and Arenas alike. Katniss takes the can, brushing her fingers over mine and sending scorching heat mingled with electric pulses back up my arm and straight to someplace deep in my chest. It dances with the new euphoria and evens out into a pleasant warmth and I’m thinking of sunlight and trees for some reason. And surprisingly, I’m not angry at all.

 

Katniss flips the can in her grip to read the label. She squeezes her eyes shut and purses her lips, and for a moment, I think maybe I was wrong. Maybe I got the memory wrong. But then she speaks.

 

“Thanks,” she says and pops the lid, her lips ticking a little at the corner as she examines the contents. “It even has dried plums.”

 

She bends the lid into a makeshift spoon and digs into the stew while I turn back to decide on something for myself, a single word planting itself in my brain and starting a fight with the one thing I’m certain of…that they should kill me now.

 

_ Real. _ That memory was Real.


	7. Almost Lost You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay. Based on a dialogue prompt, “I almost lost you.” Katniss loses track of time in the woods and Peeta nearly loses his mind. 3,378 Words. Written June 2015. WARNINGS: RATED T, no other warnings.

Under a brilliant sky, the woods teem with life. Katniss shifts in her reclined position and squints up at the sky, the puffy white clouds that glide across it, casting shadows over her face and her lake. Her lips are turned up into a smile. She has set her lines for fish and gathered katniss roots and strawberries, taken a swim and later, she’ll check her traps. For now, she’s basking in the heat of the sun and the majesty of her woods. It’s a glorious summer day, not unlike one two years ago when the name of a girl with only one slip in a glass bowl rang out across a square. 

The thought intrudes on her peace and her lips falter. It feels wrong to feel happy when her sister is gone. But that is what Katniss feels today. Happy.

It’s strange and foreign in many ways, familiar in others. Her instinct is to hide behind the firm belief that she does not deserve this life or this joy. It should belong to another, someone better. Someone kinder. Closing her eyes, Katniss conjures up a mental image of her sister and holds the innocent smile in her memory.

It should belong to Prim.

_ Did Prim ever have her first kiss? _

Eyes still shut, Katniss tilts her head at the question that seeps into her mind. Of course, she would be thinking of that, given the events of last night. Only fourteen at her death, Katniss supposes it’s possible that she did have her first kiss. Would Prim have found a moment to steal that type of warmth in the underground depths of Thirteen? Used to thinking of her sister as timid or shy, terrified of the woods and her own shadow, Katniss recognizes that she cannot continue to think of Prim as the twelve year old girl who clung to her at the Reaping two years ago.

Part of Katniss acknowledged this long ago, buried in a bunker. And now, Katniss faces the reality. Prim was far older than Katniss sometimes wishes. She swallows and remembers who Prim was, a girl with the strength and grit to treat the bleeding and the dying with unflinching courage, the wisdom to recognize the tactics of their enemy and the depths of its effectiveness on Katniss, the compassion to run blindly into the fire in the name of saving and healing those she did not know at all.

A single tear treks down Katniss’ face and she lets it fall while she diverts her mind to happier memories of her sister. Bits of joy that she thinks might make good entries into the memory book…

* * *

 

_ Every window in the house is open and still Katniss burns. She itches at her arms and the light sheen of perspiration coating them. _

_ “Do you want to stop?” Peeta asks and she shakes her head. They need to finish the entry before the memory slips away into the dark recesses of forgetfulness. He vocalizes her thoughts. “We’ll finish this one and then stop for the night.” _

_ He bends his head back over the page after she agrees and Katniss watches him shade Lady’s ears, amazed with how soft the fur appears. She fights back the urge to reach out and touch it, to find if it is real. Crickets sing outside the window and she tucks her knees up to her chest, despite the heat. It built all day and hasn’t yet dissipated. _

_ “There,” Peeta murmurs, sitting up and setting his paint brush aside, flexing his fingers to work the stiffness from them. Katniss reaches out and takes his hand in hers, absently rubbing his knuckles as she gazes down at their latest entry. _

_ Prim’s face stares back, perpetually caught in surprised laughter as Lady licks her cheek in gratitude or affection. And Katniss finds herself smiling back. _

_ Peeta clears his throat and Katniss looks over, wondering how long they’ve sat like this, with his hand in her lap and subject to her inept attempts at massage while she stares at their work. _

_ “Sorry,” she blurts out, practically shoving his hand back into his own lap before standing abruptly from the kitchen table and setting to work washing the supper dishes. While she scrubs, she listens to the sounds of Peeta completing the final steps, sealing the page so the ink will last, barely discernible over the rush of water in the sink. _

_ She’s finished and drying her hands when she hears him stand, the legs of the chair scraping over the wood of the floor. Slowly she turns to face him, leaning back against the kitchen counter. _

_ “I can go, if you want me to,” he says softly. His words send a rush of annoyance through her. _

_ “Why?” she snaps, immediately sorry about her harsh tone, but she’s confused and hurt by his sudden distance. _

_ “It’s just,” he waves at the book and she scowls more. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to write Prim’s page and I thought you might not want me here. That you might want to be alone.” _

_ “No,” Katniss says firmly. “No, I don’t.” _

_ “Oh,” is all Peeta says and Katniss nearly sighs in exasperation, floundering for the words to tell him her thoughts. He rubs the back of his neck and she turns to arrange things on the counter that are already in their place. _

_ “So you want me to stay?” _

_ She drops her head back and closes her eyes. Then she decides she’ll just show the idiot what she wants. _

_ On swift feet, she moves through the downstairs, checking doors, shutting windows, and turning off lights. She instantly misses the little bit of fresh air the windows had been admitting. It isn’t until she’s halfway up the stairs and turns around to stare at Peeta, illuminated in the faint moonlight shining through the windows over the front door. _

_ “Are you coming to bed or what?” _

_ Peeta nods and follows her up the stairs, his steps heavy and plodding. They move through their night-time routine, brushing teeth, taking turns in the cool shower before dressing in pajamas. She’s lying in bed with all of the covers kicked to the foot when Peeta’s weight dips down on the mattress behind her. She waits until he’s laid back and wriggled a little to get comfortable before rolling to face him. He’s already watching her, laying on his side, his face unreadable in the night. _

_ Katniss scoots closer to him, feels the heat radiating off his body. He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of shorts, an attempt to keep comfortable in the late summer heat. She wants to touch his cheek, to whisper the words she knows he needs to hear. Peeta wouldn’t still be asking her ridiculous questions if he knew the answer. _

_ She leans forward and halts when he sucks in a breath. _

_ “Katniss,” he whispers her name and she blinks, pauses before pressing her lips softly to his. It isn’t the first time they’ve kissed since he came home. There have been nights plagued with her nightmares when she frantically sought his mouth to reassure herself that both of them were still alive and breathing, not trapped in another arena. The ragged sounds of inhales and exhales through noses as his lips slanted over hers helped to calm her, to find enough peace and comfort wrapped in his arms and kisses to fall back asleep. _

_ But this kiss is different. Gentle and unhurried. He seems to be holding his breath as she moves closer still, flattening her hands on his chest, her palms nearly scorched with the heat of him. Her nose bumps his and he releases his breath, sending it dancing over her cheek as their lips separate and embarrassment colors her cheeks. _

_ “Sorry,” she mutters. _

_ “Don’t be. Please,” Peeta whispers, his eyes finding hers and holding her gaze. They’re two shards of midnight, so different from their bright shade of the day. She blinks and slides her hands up to his shoulders. _

_ “I like kissing you,” she admits and he smiles at her, sending a swarm of butterflies through her, trailing warmth through her limbs in their wake. _

_ “Well don’t stop, then,” he teases and she scrunches her nose at him in a poor excuse for a scowl. _

_ Keeping her eyes open, she presses her lips to Peeta’s once more and watches his eyes grow cloudy before flickering shut. He presses back this time, their lips moving in a careful dance. The butterflies remain, heating her belly and sending her stomach into a series of somersaults. His hand skims over her bare arm and she wants to flinch away from the touch on her fire mutt skin. Instead she rolls them so he’s on his back and she’s sprawled on his chest. _

_ His hand continues to caress her burned arm as he brings the other hand up to cup her neck, holding them together as she tastes it all over again. Hunger. Need. His lips part beneath hers on a moan and she tentatively slips her tongue inside, pulling it back to her mouth when Peeta goes rigid beneath her. Unaware she’d closed her eyes, she flings them open and stares down to find him staring back, his features blurred at such a close space. Their mouths are still joined and as he watches her, he relaxes. _

_ Katniss tucks her legs up so she’s straddling him, sitting on his abdomen with her knees pressing into his ribs. Much slower than before, she slides her tongue past his still parted lips. A feeling of power and something else surges through her as Peeta whines, curling his tongue with hers, but otherwise giving her free reign to explore his mouth, his taste. She keeps kissing him until they’re both panting, eyes shut tight against the rest of the world and anything other than them and this kiss. _

_ No cameras. No audience, she thinks happily as she fingers his hair, still damp from his shower. She doesn’t have to think about any motive for kissing Peeta save one…she  _ wants _ to kiss him. _

* * *

 

The harsh screech of an angry goose pulls her from slumber. Blinking, she looks around her. She’s at the lake still, not in bed with Peeta, and the memory is from last night. Groggy from her unintentional nap, she stretches and groans. Her skin feels hot and tight in places, probably sunburned. Crawling to the edge of the water, she splashes the spots until they start to feel cool then observes her surroundings. The light has faded significantly and Katniss curses, dressing quickly before moving through the woods to check her snares.

She’s late. Very late. After bagging her haul for the day, she tromps through the woods, uncaring how loud she is or how much game she scares away, angry with herself for wasting so much time. She pauses at the fence to fling her jacket over her shoulders, concealing her scars before slipping back through and making her way quickly towards the Village. She’ll just have to put this meat on ice tonight and trade at the market tomorrow; they’ll already be closed.

When she reaches the stairs of their house, she’s surprised to hear loud voices and see the lights burning in most of the downstairs. As she slinks through the door, Peeta’s voice reaches her. He’s barking orders that sound like instructions for a search party.

“She usually sticks to a set trail,” he punctuates each word carefully. “How hard can it be for a group of people shouting her name between here and the lake to find her?”

When she enters the kitchen, she’s stunned to see Haymitch, Greasy Sae, Thom, and half a dozen others gathered around a distraught looking Peeta. His eyes skim over the crowd and then dart back to the doorway, widening at the sight of her.

“Katniss!” he says, his voice sounding ragged and scared. She’s barely had time to drop her game bag before he’s shoved aside Thom and she’s enfolded in Peeta’s arms.

“Who’s missing?” she says in annoyance, more because he’s chafing some of her sunburn than anything else. Her arms are pinned to her sides by his, and as she tries to wriggle free, she examines the faces of the small crowd in their kitchen.

“Alright folks,” Haymitch announces. “Shows over here.”

He ushers everyone out and then  _ tsks  _ at Katniss while she glares at him before ducking outside, closing the door behind him.

“Where were you?” Peeta demands as soon as the door shuts, pulling away from her and gripping her arms almost to the point of pain. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? You were supposed to be home hours ago! I had half the District out looking for you! What the hell were you thinking?”

Anger boils swiftly to the surface as she tries to shrug out of his grip, remembering now that she’d promised to work the afternoon shift helping rebuild the school. But Peeta is unyielding in his hold on her.

“I was fine, Peeta. I just fell asleep by the lake.” He finally releases her to tug his hands through his hair and he paces about the kitchen, his eyes wild. The observation bothers her somehow. “Why are you so worried anyhow? It’s not like I don’t usually spend most of the day in the woods.”

“Yes,” he says, gesturing forcefully. “But today, you promised to be back by two. And now it’s well past seven. You’re late for dinner!”

She shrugs out of her jacket and ignores his gasp at the reddened spots on her skin as she hangs it on the hook by the door, wondering angrily at whatever has gotten into him.

“So I’m a few hours late. I can take care of myself in the woods, Peeta,” she tries not to snarl, crossing her arms over her chest and planting her feet on the floor. She neglects to mention that she’d completely forgotten about the rebuilding and would have missed her shift even if she hadn’t fallen asleep.

“I know that!”

“Then why are you all worked up?”

“I…I...I just…” Peeta waves his hands around, looking anywhere but at her.

“Spit it out, Peeta,” she says harshly.

“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve almost lost you!”

His words stun her into silence as she blinks at him, absorbing the fear in his eyes, poorly masked behind anger, and words from ages ago return to her.  _ My nightmares are usually about losing you. _

Could that be true again? With the hijacking and everything else, is that still his biggest fear?

“I didn’t know what happened. If you’d gotten hurt or attacked by an animal or just started walking with no plans of ever coming back. It's getting dark and I can’t…I can’t…”

Apparently it is true.

* * *

 

_ The bed shifts in sudden, violent spasms beneath her, jolting her from slumber. Katniss groans and rolls to face Peeta, a scathing comment about keeping her awake on the tip of her tongue. Except Peeta is not awake. _

_ His leg twitches in the night and his fingers clench. Beads of sweat stipple his forehead and upper lip as his torso twists first left then right. She curls a fist over her breast and sits upright, blinking the sleep from her eyes, suddenly unsure what to do. Peeta usually wakes from his nightmares without the violence associated with her own night terrors. This new development scares her, but they protect each other, so she reaches out a hand, keeping her eyes fixed on his, watching as the ball rhythmically convulses beneath the pale blue skin of his eyelids. _

_ “Peeta, wake up,” she urges, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Wake up!” _

_ Her more forceful words and shoving of his shoulder tear him from the world of terror and his eyes fly open. His pupils dilate rapidly then contract before slowly growing to accommodate the darkness of the room. Katniss scoots back away from him, ready to bolt if needed. Dr. Aurelius once told her, unasked, that she shouldn’t fear violence from Peeta, that they worked very hard to find ways for Peeta to control the hijacking enough for him to feel safe returning to District 12, but at this moment, she wonders just how deeply Snow managed to root his poison in Peeta’s mind. _

_ Eyes darting around the room and chest heaving, Peeta finds Katniss cowering at the edge of the bed. He must see something in her gaze, because his face crumples in shame. He holds his hands in front of him, palms to Katniss, before leveraging his torso, unaided by hands, in sitting upright. Something catches in the back of her throat at the sight of him presenting his unarmed palms to her. _

_ “Just a nightmare,” Peeta croaks, and relieved, Katniss brushes his damp curls off his forehead. _

_ “I could…I could sing,” she offers quietly and Peeta’s breath catches as he stares at her. _

_ “I’d like that,” he whispers. _

_ Laying back down beside him, Katniss clears her throat awkwardly before settling on a lullaby her mother sometimes sang. By slow degrees, Peeta relaxes as she sings. At one point, he laces their fingers together, his eyes never leaving her face. She watches his lashes dip in slow, regular blinks until his eyes finally droop. She keeps singing well after he’s fallen back asleep, contemplates the lips she spent an inordinate amount of time kissing earlier that night. Just kissing. The memory curls through her, warm and tender and her melody lilts over them both, brightened with her smile as she realizes she will be able to kiss Peeta whenever  _ she _ wants now. _

_ It isn’t something she’d considered as a luxury when it was required for the cameras. Now she thinks maybe it is. Testing her theory, she leans over him as the last note of the lullaby trembles past her lips. Then she gives him a whispering kiss. As she pulls away, one of his eyes opens a little, and he smiles. _

_ “Why’d you stop?” _

_ “Didn’t you get enough kisses earlier?” _

_ “Never. Kiss me anytime you feel like it,” he whispers and she can’t help but snigger a little. _

_ “You’ll allow it?” she teases. _

_ “I’ll allow it,” his voice takes on a serious tone as he closes his eyes once more and takes a few deep breaths. _

_ “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks after listening for awhile to the distant sounds of the night birds in the trees of the Village. _

_ “Maybe in the morning,” Peeta says through a yawn and opens his arms to her. Despite the stifling heat of the night, she curls into him and rests her head on his chest, right where she can hear his heart beating. They’ll probably both need showers again in the morning. Already, her skin is feeling sticky, and she thinks longingly of a swim in the lake, mentally making plans to go there tomorrow and fish. She falls asleep with his fingers drawing patterns on her shoulders, raising pleasant tingles and goosebumps over her arm. _

* * *

 

Except they didn’t talk about his nightmare this morning. When she’d left a few hours prior to dawn to hunt, he was awake and seemed fine, actually cheerful, as he unabashedly kissed her in the kitchen, making her toes curl and her heart race, his nightmare of the previous night swept away under fervent lips. The commotion about her disappearing, the search party, Peeta’s words and his pacing...Katniss now wonders if last night’s nightmare was about losing her. It would explain why he’s so agitated today.

Slowly uncrossing her arms, Katniss walks over to him and takes one hand in hers, pulling it away from his hair before he tears out any of the curls she loves so much.

_ Loves. _

The word makes her falter for just a second as she lifts his hand to her lips to kiss his knuckles. Then she flips his hand over to kiss along his wrist while Peeta watches her intently. Stepping closer to him, Katniss tilts her head back until his lips hover over hers, his harsh breaths fanning over her mouth. She’s so used to Peeta being the calm one, the steady one. Sometimes she doesn’t consider just how damaged he is, too.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and Peeta blinks, his brow furrowing at her words. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“I can’t stand to lose you right now, Katniss,” he confesses, his face returning to almost frantic, and she nods, finally brushing her lips with his. Peeta seems to take that as an invitation, scooping her up into his arms and clinging to her.

“I can’t promise you won’t,” she says cautiously, unwilling to give him vows she may be unable to keep.

“I know,” he says in a strangled voice, resting his forehead against her temple. She wraps her arms and legs around him, trying to absorb whatever pain and fear he’s feeling right now, to let him know she’s here and staying here with him.

“Is there any dinner left?” she asks when her stomach growls loudly. He lifts his head and stares at her a moment with one eyebrow raised before trailing his lips over her neck and shoulders, as though still reassuring himself that she’s here, safe and real. For a moment, Katniss thinks she should feel embarrassed or flustered at his amorous behavior. Then she reminds herself that this is no different than the way she seeks comfort from him in the night with heated kisses ignited in relief, not desire.

His eyes turn mischievous as he glances at her in between kisses. “I don’t think you deserve any dinner.”

“Oh no, Peeta Mellark,” she twists in his embrace, trying to escape. “Those are dangerous words to be flinging about so casually.”

Peeta laughs and releases her before rummaging in the cabinets for supplies. He tosses a few to her and she examines them.

“We can’t make dinner with this,” she complains.

“That’s for the sunburn salve. You take care of that and I’ll fix dinner.”

“You didn’t eat?” she asks as a wave of guilt washes over her and he halts his movements.

“I couldn’t. Not when you were—“

She nods, cutting off his words, and sits at the table to crush the herbs and prepare the salve. On occasion, she takes quick peeks at him as he cooks. Once her skin is slathered with the balm, she joins him in the preparations, thinking happily of another evening spent in the comfort of their bed, sharing embraces and kisses, whenever she wants them.


	8. I'm Pregnant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post -Mockingjay. The title is self-explanatory, it’s based on a dialogue prompt. 744 Words. Written June 2015. WARNINGS: Rated T, no other warnings.

With a deep breath, Katniss closes her eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Repeat.

 

This is what they want. This is what  _ he _ wants. The words should not be so difficult to say to him. Fifteen years of no Snow, no Coin, and no Games have lessened but not erased the fears. She’s known for a few weeks and still can’t bring herself to just  _ say it _ .

 

She runs her hands over her still flat stomach. Soon, her mother had promised over the phone. Soon the nausea would abate and Katniss would feel the first fluttering of life. Like butterflies wings or gas, her mother had explained. Katniss' lips tick at the thought of how different those two sensations sound. Opening her eyes once more, she nods at the woman in the mirror. She can do this. Three simple words.

 

Resolute in her task, she turns and leaves the bathroom, crawling back in the bed to snuggle into Peeta's warmth. He lifts the covers for her and tugs her close, drops a few soft kisses to her cheeks and neck.

 

"You okay?"

 

"Fine," she answers and the rest sticks in her throat. The silence between them grows heavy and she wiggles closer, tucking her nose into the hollow of his throat so she doesn't have to see the questions or the worry in his eyes. She should look, though. She should watch as the joy of her words spreads over his face, a sunrise of hope. The same look that came over his features the day she said that one infinitely important word. 

 

_ Real. _

 

Again the day he came home to her poring over his scrawled notes, searching for his attempt to record the memory of how to make a toasting bread. For them.

 

He draws patterns on her back and she opens her mouth, sucks air into her lungs...and silently mouths the words, brushing them against his throat.

 

"Should we go see a healer?" He asks before she gets the chance to vocalize what she wants to say.

 

"No," she croaks.

 

"Call your mom?" The worry in his voice hides behind a thin, calm exterior and she fights back her mounting frustration. If he'd be quiet for just a second, she could tell him.

 

"I talked to her yesterday."

 

"Well then--"

 

"I'm pregnant," she whispers, so quiet that she doubts her own ears. Did she actually say it?

Peeta's hands still on her. His entire body rigid against her and pernicious doubt creeps into her veins. Maybe he’s changed his mind.

 

"What did you say?" He asks in a strained voice.

 

"I'm pregnant," she manages to say it with a little more volume this time and Peeta sits up, pulling her with him and making her dizzy. He grips her arms to steady her and peers intently into her eyes.

 

"One more time."

 

And she laughs. Laughs because she can see the effort in his jaw, the smile he's keeping contained and even though the sun hasn't risen yet, the room seems bright with the light from his eyes, illuminated only by the glow of the stars and the bathroom lamp she left on, in case she needed to make another break for the toilet.

 

"I'm pregnant, Peeta," she says with a smile washing over her face.

 

His hands release her arms and reach out to touch her belly, a look of awe and wonder on his face.

 

“We’re gonna be parents,” he whispers.

 

“That’s kind of what pregnant means,” she teases, running a hand over his hair as he bends awkwardly to lift her shirt and feather kisses over her navel.

 

“Little one,” he coos, “You have no idea how loved you are. We’re a little banged up and bent, but we promise, we’re gonna try to be the best parents we can. We’ll love you always. And we protect each other. It’s just what we do in this family, okay?”

 

He kisses them again and warmth courses through her as he sits up, carefully replacing her shirt over her skin, and she knows that he’s the only one she’d want to embark on this journey with. Peeta scoots closer on the bed, his hands shaking a little as he pulls her into a warm hug. It’s the only indication as he holds her tightly against him that he’s a little scared, too. As the sun rises outside their window, Katniss smiles at the soft orange reminder that this would have happened anyways.

 


	9. Pregnancy Cravings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay. Based on the dialogue prompt, “Hey! I was gonna eat that!” 911 Words. Written June 2015. WARNINGS: RATED T, no other warnings.

“Would you stop prowling like that. You’re making me nervous.” Katniss snorts at my words, but really, she could blink abnormally right now and I’d be nervous about it.

 

“It’s your own fault. Thief,” she accuses and I roll my eyes, slapping the dough on the counter as evidence.

 

“See this? This is me fixing it.”

 

“No, Peeta. You fixing it would be you not eating the last cheese bun.”

 

“I was anxious and hungry,” I say, knowing that I sound petulant and childish. 

 

Really these sorts of bickering sessions need to stop. Soon. I have to be a good example. The last thing I want is for our child to grow up in anything resembling an angry home. My thoughts are only emphasized when she halts, grasping the kitchen counter and breathing deliberately as she rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. I move to hold her, touch her. Something. Anything. There’s a huge difference between knowing the woman you love is about to go through an insane amount of physical pain and actually seeing it play out before your eyes.

 

Except Katniss scowls at me, pinning me in place. I work the dough as she works through the contraction. They’re getting closer. About five minutes apart now. We should send for the midwife. Before I can vocalize that thought, though, Katniss speaks again.

 

“ _ I was anxious and hungry, _ ” she parrots, and if she weren’t already pissed off at me, I might have laughed at the exaggerated inflection she uses. At the least, it does wonders for the anxiousness I confessed to feeling. Katniss and her scowl have that odd effect on me. “Need I remind you that I am eating for two here?”

 

Pointing to her stomach as she asks the question, she scowls deeply and I can’t help but smile, despite the dangers of the action. “Why do you think I’m making more?”

 

She snorts again and resumes her prowling of the kitchen. A few minutes later, she’s still stuck on the cheese bun I ate.

 

“I was gonna eat that cheese bun, Peeta,” she complains. “I was looking forward to that cheese bun.”

 

“Look at it this way - you’ll have an entire batch of freshly baked cheese buns waiting for you by the time the baby gets here. Cheese buns take time, after all.” Katniss whines in frustration at my words.

 

“Peeta Mellark, you are an insensitive bastard!” 

 

She picks up a handful of flour from the bowl and flings it into my face. I close my eyes just before the powdery substance hits my skin. Blowing out a huff of air, I tentatively open one eye to look at her. She’s gorgeous, even riled up like she is now. The pregnancy made her hair more glossy and it sways down her back in a long braid. Her skin is luminous and her gray eyes blaze in smoke and righteous fire. She changed into a cotton nightdress as soon as the contractions became regular and has been pacing in the kitchen barefoot, her rounded belly straining against the soft cotton fabric of her dress. I should have known better than to eat the last one. 

 

“A cheese bun. Thieving. Bastard,” she punctuates each word with another fistful of flour in my face.

 

Still, I can’t help but smirk at her as I shake it free from my hair and skin. In a few hours, I’ll get to see her holding our child. Hear the soft coos of mother and baby as they get acquainted. Nothing could ruin that for me, not even a face full of flour and an angry woman deprived of her carbs.

 

“Is that any way to speak about the father of your children?” I ask, scooping up my own handful of flour and flinging it back at her. She steps back, gasping in outrage, and the powder lands at her feet, coating her toes in a soft brown dusting.

 

“Child, Peeta,” she corrects. “And unless you get those buns in the oven soon, we won’t be having any more.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” I say and return to diligently kneading the dough and watching out of the corner of my eyes as she bends slightly, pressing a hand into the lower right side of her abdomen and breathing. And because I am suddenly feeling nervous again, I count for her, matching the rhythm of my hands to the time I’m keeping verbally.

 

As her body relaxes, she smiles at me. “Thanks,” she says in a slightly hoarse voice.

 

“Should we call the midwife?” My voice carries a high note of anxiety that I am unable to prevent.

 

“Not yet,” she answers. “But soon.”

 

“Did the counting help?” I ask, feeling a little less helpless when she nods and starts pacing again, her feet trailing through the small pile of flour on the floor, dragging powdered footprints across the worn wood surface. She looks back behind her at the floor, a soft smile momentarily spreading warmth over her face and I wonder if she’s thinking about the same thing I am.

 

Baby footprints in flour across our kitchen floor. I concentrate on my task at hand, wanting to keep my promise of having this batch ready by the time the baby arrives, if not before. If the baby is anything like her mother, she won’t be patient for food. The thought makes me grin as I start shaping the rolls and setting them aside to rise.


	10. Dreams Cut Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, within the Mockingjay timeline. Based on a prompt for an “I missed you kiss.” 445 Words. Written December 2015. WARNINGS: RATED T for references to torture.

The rest of the world falls away when he sees her. At last. Katniss. His heart kicks and his feet move without him ordering them to do so. Her grey eyes widen as he pulls her into his arms and smashes his mouth to hers. Then her fingers are in his hair and she melts against him. Like she did on the beach. She seems to vibrate in his embrace, a livewire sparking against his raw skin. He can smell the salt and feel the sand clinging to his palms and his back, hear the waves and her soft moans.

 

He pulls back for just a second, draws his thumb across her cheek, collecting a stray tear.

 

“How I’ve missed you,” he murmurs to her.

 

“Peeta,” she whispers and then pauses. Without waiting for her to speak again, he pulls her back to him, and binds her body to his with his arms. Her lips find his and she sighs before they kiss once more. He never wants to let her go. Not after what he’s faced. Not now that he knows that kiss on the beach wasn’t an act.

 

_ Real. Real. Real.  _ He repeats it in his head like a mantra.

 

“Wake up!” The harsh voice intrudes and a hand smacks across the back of his skull, yanking him from his state of bliss.

 

His fists clench as he jolts awake, the words  _ Yes, mother _ on his lips when his movements cause his wrists to chafe against the restraints and he recalls where he is. His entire being deflates. The blurry world around him slowly comes back into focus. His cell. In the Capitol.

 

Wherever Katniss is, it isn’t here. And he’s grateful for that. A twinge of anger intrudes at the reminder that she left him and he fights it back, telling himself there must have been a reason.

 

His captors move around the cell, making loud noise to keep him awake as they prepare whatever torture today holds for him. Peeta shifts, trying to recapture the feelings of his dream, a piece of light, but escapes through his fingertips as his body reminds him of how exhausted and battered he is. The back of his head throbs, his wrists burn, and his muscles drag with disuse and exhaustion. His legs feel as though they weigh a hundred pounds extra. 

 

_ A hundred pound sack of flour straight over his head. _

 

The memory tickles the edges of his thought as his captors turn to him and he steels himself for the barrage of confusing images.

 

The dream wasn’t real. Wasn’t true. Katniss does not miss him. He clenches his fists and faces the day.


	11. Caught Off Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, port Mockingjay. Based on a prompt for a “caught off guard kiss.” 657 Words. Written December 2015. WARNINGS: RATED K, mostly fluffy so no real warnings.

Her feet ache as she trudges home. Legs leaden and heavy, she pushes open the door and sighs in relief. A warm glow and the yeasty scent of fresh bread greets her. She got lost in the woods. Not literally, but she had wandered for hours with no goal or destination in mind. She hadn’t bagged so much as a squirrel. She knew it when she woke up this morning. Today was going to be a bad day.

 

And it was.

 

She walked and fought back every instinct that told her life was not worth bearing anymore. There was no light or hope for things to get any better.

 

Eventually, she had begun to make a list. It was the dandelion that sparked it. It usually is. But the dandelions she’d spotted growing a patch near a stream reminded her of one act of selfless kindness. A red welt. Burned bread. Frigid rain. And then hope.

 

That led to another. A package of cookies after a death sentence. A kiss on the cheek. A warm embrace. An encouraging smile as a cape flamed to life. And on they went.

 

So she made a list. A list of every act of kindness she had ever witnessed. It took a long time. The sun had set by the time she’d either run out or thought perhaps she’d begun to list things a second or third time.

 

Then her aching feet led her home. Here.

 

She silently shuts the door and hangs her bow on its pegs next to the door. Sitting on the bench, she slips her boots off and carefully places them on the floor. She can hear noise from the kitchen and knows that it must be him.

 

He’s here more often, now that they’ve begun to speak again. To work through tangled memories and to cry together as they fill the book. He still won’t stay past midnight. Tells her it’s safer if maybe they don’t sleep together just yet.

 

It angered her the first time he said that. She needed, craved, the peace to be found in his embrace. Eventually she came to understand. He didn’t want to hurt her. Which made him overly cautious.

 

Silent sock feet slide across the wood floor to the kitchen door. She wraps a hand around the door frame and watches as he works. A loaf sits on the table with their dinner. She can practically see the steam rising from it. Her mouth waters at the aromas, the sight of the fare he’s prepared for them.

 

His arms bend and the muscles flex as he works a round lump of dough, flour scattered over his hands, wrists, up to his elbows. She watches until he’s done kneading and has set the dough to rise. Probably for breakfast. He’s cleaning his work space when she walks up behind him. She’s watched him before, so many times, she can pace her steps to his movements so that when he finally turns to head towards the sink and wash the flour from his hands, she’s there.

 

Peeta jumps in surprise, but Katniss winds her arms around his neck and pulls him down the slight distance, pressing her lips to his. Neither of them move. Mouths locked together, breaths released in short pants from nostrils. She can feel his heart pounding against hers. She left no room between their hearts.

 

Katniss opens her eyes and finds his closed, his too-long and should be tangled lashes catching the soft glow of the fire. Her lips curve in a smile against his and his hands come to rest on her hips, not chaining her to him, but letting her know he doesn’t want to stop just yet. And when she thinks of the two, broad white handprints that will be on her pants later, she nearly laughs. But although her shoulders quake with it, the one thing she doesn’t do is stop kissing Peeta.


	12. Champagne Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, missing scene from Peeta’s POV, Catching Fire timeline, prompted by lovesbiggerthanpride to write #13. Kiss on the neck. 1,499 Words. Written January 2016. WARNINGS: RATED T for angst ahoy!

“Lift your chin,” Portia says and I dutifully obey while she adjusts my collar. It’s unbearably stiff and I don’t know what this thing passing as a bowtie around my neck is made of. I dub it the torture collar as she tightens something and I swallow in reflex.

 

“There. Comfortable?”

 

“Comfort is the aim of this thing?” I ask and she laughs. I look around for Katniss. She’s supposed to be here by now. Cinna mentioned they’d finished an hour ago before he swept down the stairs to join the festivities. 

 

We’re supposed to stand at the top of the main staircase and wait to be announced before we descend to the party below. I’ve about had it with grand entrances. A part of me is eager to be back in the peace and quiet of my house in Victor’s Village. Away from all of this. The last two weeks have taken their toll. As evidence, Portia nudges my arm out of the way and tuts as she makes a quick adjustment to my pants.

 

“You’ve lost more weight,” she says. I don’t respond. What’s to be said? It's probably only going to get worse in the next month or so, until I get used to sleeping alone again.

 

That’s the part of me dreading the end of this night. As much as I hate the idea of being paraded in front of the country for a second longer in this farce of a romance, I'm dreading the long nights of terror without Katniss beside me. It’s been easier. So much easier. The cave, the train. WIth her slender warmth curled next to me, it’s been far easier to manage the darkness.

 

Some nights, I even manage to fool myself into thinking that there’s more happening than just two terrified kids trying to find a way to face their nightmares. Doesn’t in mean  _ something  _ if they need each other to face them?

 

I stop myself right there. Katniss does not need me. She never will.

 

Effie appears in a cloud of magenta chiffon, perfume, and a silver wig.

 

“Handsome as ever,” she says, giving me an indulgent smile before searching the otherwise empty landing. “Now where is Katniss?”

 

I shrug and Effie huffs. I have to bite back a smile as Effie prances off in pursuit of my fiancee. My fiancee. Ugh. My stomach twists in disgust. How did I get myself into this mess? For the thousandth time since getting off that first train home, I think that it would have been better if I’d just died in that arena. I don’t even know if Snow is convinced. Katniss and I still haven’t had a chance to talk about it.

 

I’m struggling to contain the negative thoughts when Effie reappears, Katniss in tow. She’s beautiful, as always, draped in moonlight from her shoulders to her toes, hair hanging free, a curtain of satin midnight. I bite back a million fanciful thoughts that I know will never be real and therefore don’t really matter.

 

Instead I extend my arm and bite my cheek to stop from smiling when Katniss scowls at Effie. At least she’s less despondent, now that we’re engaged. Although I have a feeling it has far more to do with the safety of her loved ones than with me. I’m just the boy who got in the way.

 

She slides her arm through mine and peers over the stair railing. The noise of the party is already daunting. I wonder who they managed to dig up to attend this splendid affair here in Twelve. A handful of government officials. Maybe some of the Peacekeepers. Our families. I’ve no idea.

 

Katniss catches me staring at her and my face heats. She reaches up and does something to my hair. WIth a satisfied nod, she faces forward and sighs. I have to look away from her or be sucked into dangerous waters.

 

We are announced and finally walk down the stairs to enthusiastic applause. We smile and bow, kiss for the cameras. When Mayor Undersee greets us, Katniss tenses, her fingers clutching my arm. We engage in idle small talk, accept his congratulations on our engagement. And shortly after he moves on to other guests, she snatches a glass of fizzing rose colored champagne from a table and takes a few quick gulps.

 

Something is wrong.

 

“Hey,” I say, smiling widely for the cameras as I pry the glass out of her grip. She looks up at me and blinks. “Share.”

 

I take a sip or two before handing it back to her. She continues to drink, but my ruse has at least slowed her down a little.  I steer her towards the food, but she only nibbles at it absentmindedly. The only time she truly brightens are the few minutes we’re allowed to spend with her family before we’re whisked along to meet some other important dignitary.

 

The party drags on and Katniss snares a second glass of champagne. This time, when I place my hand over hers, she easily surrenders the glass. After I take a sip, I place the glass on a ledge, out of her sight and twine our fingers together.

 

“Care to dance?” I ask as she sways a little, unsteady on her feet.

 

“Okay,” she says, and allows me to lead her onto the dance floor. It’s much smaller than the one in the president's mansion, and I keep us in a corner, as far from the prying lenses of cameras as possible. Thankfully, the music is a slower song.

 

Katniss steps into my arms and we move carefully, so as to not bump into any of the other couples. As the dance progresses, I wonder what’s happened to her. Did something upset her? I wish we could talk here, because in an hour or so, she’ll be whisked back to her house with her family and then I’ll be waiting who knows how long for answers.

 

“Is everything alright?” I whisper and she steps closer, resting her head on my shoulder and leaning into my body. The champagne must have gone straight to her head.

 

“It’s fine,” she says, the warm puff of her words hitting my neck and sending sparks through my nerves.

 

_ Stop it, Peeta. _ I tell myself.

 

“Ask me about it later,” she continues.

 

“Okay,” I say and tuck my cheek against hers for a moment. Just a second. When I lift my head again, I tell myself it’s for the cameras. I’m such a liar. Wish I could lie my way out of this one.

 

Turning my head away from Katniss, I try to corral my thoughts and herd them away from the path they’ve taken it. I'm so preoccupied by this that I almost miss it. A warm, petal soft caress against my neck. Right above the torture collar. I keep dancing, keep leading us in small, slow circles. But my mind and every last one of my senses is honed in on the feel of her lips caressing my neck.

 

I’m torn in two.

 

We’re engaged. She doesn’t want me. She loves someone else. And yet she’s kissing me so tenderly it’s sending my thoughts reeling, rending my heart with a simple brush of lips on skin. What I wouldn’t give to have this moment be real. Not an act. Not for the cameras.

 

Slowly, so as to not disturb her, I inch my head back around. She doesn’t stop. I close my eyes and allow myself one second to imagine this is just for us. Tomorrow I’ll wake up alone, probably sweating and heart pounding with some new horror my mind conjures from its seemingly infinite well of despair and torment.

 

And I want this. One stolen moment with her lips on me with such tenderness, that I can almost believe that everything will be okay.

 

A camera flashes. The delicate thread tethering me to this dream is fractured. I shift and look down at her. Her lips have gone still, her eyes have closed. She looks at peace, though. As she did last night on the train, when she dreamt of Rue. 

 

I swallow, my throat constricting under the confines of the damned collar. I let the fantasy take wing and bid it farewell. I can’t fool myself any longer. We somehow ended up here, tethered together by a handful of berries, and I can’t be selfishly thinking this way if we’re going to survive. If we’re going to protect the people that matter most to us.

 

Across the room, I see Prim standing on her toes, looking eagerly around the room, trying to drink in all the sights. She may never see another party like this one. I truly hope she doesn’t.

 

I press a soft kiss to Katniss’ cheek. My friend. My ally. She opens her eyes and smiles sleepily at me.

 

“You can go home soon,” I tell her and she snuggles deeper into my arms. “It’s almost midnight.”


	13. Under the Apple Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Epilogue, prompted by Anonymous to write #27. Kiss on the naughty bits. 1,875 Words. Written April 2016. WARNINGS: RATED M for sexual content.

Four hundred soft white lights strung overhead cast a glow on the merry scene in the town square of District Twelve. A bride and a groom spin together and then release one another’s hands, trading partners only for a minute. The dance draws them back together, arms twined about one another’s waists and heads bent close. He whispers something and she laughs, blue eyes sparking in the humid July air.

 

From the sidelines, Katniss watches her dancing girl, the crisp white lace of her wedding dress a halo around her legs. Yellow flowers woven in her hair. Something tugs inside Katniss’ chest and her hands falter in their rhythmic clapping along with the lively tune played on three violins, a couple makeshift percussion instruments lending a beat for the dancers to follow.

 

Thirty-five years ago, Katniss would not have believed this scene to be possible. Later tonight, in the quiet of their home, the newlyweds will have a toasting, but for now, all of District Twelve has come out to celebrate. Her dancing girl. Grown. Happy. Married. Safe. Without the threat of Games or starvation to cloud her wedding day. 

 

For an instant, the world spins and the old fears return. Her heart stutters and her skin grows cold as the music recedes. Today could have been another Reaping Day.

 

A warm hand rests on the small of Katniss’ back and the world rights itself. Slowly, the sounds of revelry return. She turns her head and meets the eyes that her daughter’s mirror. A smile spreads across Katniss’ face as she remembers, there are no more Games. And a wedding is a much better reason to celebrate than a Reaping.

 

Peeta leans over and kisses her cheek as she resumes clapping, his arm winding around her, steady and comforting. Their hips bump slightly and his lips brush against her ear as he whispers to her.

 

“Care to dance?”

 

Excitement courses through her at the thought of dancing with Peeta at their daughter’s wedding. But as his breath continues to caress over her neck, a different kind of thrill takes her. A now familiar hunger.

 

“Not on the dance floor,” she whispers. Peeta leans back and looks at her, brow lifted in question, as though he’s not certain of her meaning. He licks his lips and his eyes flicker out over the crowd. She knows he’s doing the same thing as her right now. Estimating how much longer the dancing will go on before the party winds down. How long they can sneak away for before their absence is noted.

 

She can tell he’s just about reached the same conclusion as her when she steps out of his hold  and makes her way through the gathered well-wishers, towards the edge of the party. Katniss smiles and nods at the congratulations and happy faces that greet her. Their words tell her that Peeta is right behind her.

 

Finally, they reach the darkened border where the party ends. Peeta slips his hand into hers as they swing wide around the laughter and music. Her feet hasten towards the lanes behind the shops that ring the square. 

 

When they first rebuilt it, Katniss hated it. In many ways, the place looked as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed. People who would have spent a lifetime toiling in the mines ran businesses. Trees and grass were planted in every available stretch of soil. Children are no longer into the space to await a death sentence. What was once only a semblance of a town center is now a vibrant community heart.

 

As her heart races along with her feet, Katniss pulls Peeta into the shadows behind the bakery. Reaching the shelter of one of the many apple trees now thriving there, she spins and falls into his arms. Together, they laugh, a giddy sound in the darkness, and then their lips meet, silencing jubilation and replacing it with need.

 

His breaths come short and hot against her cheek as his hand caresses over her braided hair. She feels a twinge of regret, knowing her tresses have started to turn gray and brittle, no longer the flowing locks that her mother would style nor even the shortened waves Peeta buried his hands in on their own wedding night. Youth belongs to their children now.

 

As if sensing her melancholy, Peeta lifts his head and gazes lovingly at her, fingertips brushing back stray hairs that have come loose and caught in the dappling of sweat on her brow, across her cheeks, burning with a hint of embarrassment.

 

“We should go inside,” he says, head tilting towards the bakery. She can still hear the sounds of the wedding party. “But you look radiant tonight. There are times I’m afraid to close my eyes, because I worry that if I do, when I open them, you’ll have vanished. Like a moonbeam through the leaves. And all of this will have turned out to be a dream.”

 

“But a good dream, right?” she asks nervously. It doesn’t happen often anymore, but every now and then, one of them still needs a touch of reassurance. Tonight, it’s Katniss.

 

“An amazing dream,” he answers with a slow smile, placing his hands lightly on her hips. They synchronize their steps and walk deeper beneath the green bowers of the apple tree.

 

“We can be quiet,” she whispers with a playful smile, her fingers toying with his belt buckle. The corners of his eyes wrinkle a little as he grins at her. They’ve not done something like this in years, children and responsibilities making spontaneity such as this harder to come by. 

 

“We can try,” he says as he begins kissing her neck, up to her ears, and already she’s panting loudly into the night. Her back presses against the trunk of the tree and the branches above them sway slightly in the summer breeze.

 

Her skin is already warm and sticky from the humid summer air, and Peeta’s lips are only increasing the heat. It spreads from his mouth to her chest, across her shoulders and down to the tips of her fingers as she grips his shoulders. His teeth scrape against a stretch of delicate skin, eliciting a shiver in her and sending the warmth lower, past her belly and between her thighs.

 

“Peeta,” she moans softly, hitching her leg around his hips. He grips her thigh, holding her leg in place and grinds his hips into hers, his other hand holding her hip, keeping her steady and upright.

 

The song on the other side of the bakery ends, but a new one quickly strikes up to a resounding cheer of excitement. Peeta’s hand grapples with her skirt, finally sliding beneath the crisp fabric and seeking out the heat that awaits him.

 

Tilting her head back, Katniss gazes up through the canopy of leaves overhead, silver in the moonlight as his fingers rub tight circles, sending soft pulses from her center out through her limbs. It’s not enough, though and she whimpers slightly in her need for something more.

 

Peeta’s mouth covers hers as he quietly hushes her, even though the sound she made was no more than a whisper in the night. The moan she releases against his tongue, as his fingers move faster, is far louder, vying with the chirping of grasshoppers. 

 

A sharp burst of laughter from the square startles them both, and Katniss experiences a moment of disappointment as Peeta’s mouth leaves hers gaping, his hand stops its movement. She blinks, reorienting herself, and realizes that Peeta is slowly lowering himself before her, placing her leg over his shoulder as he disappears beneath her skirt. 

 

She gasps as his warm fingers push aside her panties and his tongue begins to stroke her, once more tilting her head back to lean against the tree as her husband laves her folds until they are slick and throbbing in need. He’s left her nothing to hold onto, though, and her fumbling hands grip the tree, nails clutching into the grooves of the bark. 

 

All around them, the night pulses with life. Scintillating fragrances on the gentle breeze. The sounds of the wedding. The occasional call of a night bird to its mate. And them. Two people who should have died long ago and instead found a way to survive and then flourish. The breeze tickles her neck. Peeta’s mouth sends delicious hunger pangs through her blood. Every sensation reminder her of what they’ve survived and how far they traveled to make their lives good again. So they could wind up here, with him pleasuring her against an apple tree as their daughter dances with her new husband.

 

Katniss shakes her head, returning her focus to the feel of Peeta’s mouth on her. They’re probably running out of time, and it feels so good, so incredibly good. She knows he won’t want to stop until she comes for him.

 

Her hips gyrate against his lips as his tongue and fingers delve into her. Eyes on the night night sky above them, what little she can see through the trees, Katniss lets go her worries and lets his touch take the lead. Lick by lick, stroke by stroke, she flies higher, whispering his name to the sky as she goes. Heart thudding wildly in her chest, Katniss bites her lip to contain the noises desperate to escape her throat, to give song to her mounting euphoria.

 

Peeta’s free hand grips her ass, fingers digging into straining flesh as he tugs her, guiding her movements over him. Her knees begin to quake as Peeta moans against her, the vibrations eclipsing the rest of the world. With a soft cry, she flies apart. The leaves above her become moonbeams, or maybe she’s the moonbeam, as Peeta suggested. Ethereal and untouchable.

 

As Katniss trembles in the aftermath, Peeta’s tongue continues to caress her, his hands massaging her muscles until they relax and then turn molten beneath his palms. A droplet of sweat rolls down her chest, between her breasts, raising gooseflesh in its cooling wake. 

 

Eventually, Peeta extricates himself from her skirts, and she reaches down to help up upright. He been steady on his prosthesis for decades, but they’re getting older. Rising from his knees isn’t as easy as it once was.

 

“We should get back,” he whispers with a satisfied smile.

 

“What about you?” Katniss asks, flattening her palm against his obvious erection. He moans softly, his hips tilting into her touch as he shuts his eyes, but he shakes his head.

 

“We still have to go back out there for a the end and for a toasting. We can continue this later tonight. Besides,” he kisses her soundly, fingers gripping her hips once more. She’s left breathless when he finally pulls away to finish his sentence. “I still want that dance with you.”

 

Slipping her hand into Peeta’s she nods in agreement and walks side-by-side with him back around the bakery, uncaring about the flush of her cheeks giving them away to the crowd. When they return to the square, Katniss swears the lights appear brighter, or maybe it’s just Peeta’s smile as he leads her down the line and into the middle of the dance.


	14. The Mundane Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay but pre-Epilogue, based on a dialogue prompt, “The paint is supposed to go where?!?!” 2,866 Words. Written May 2016. WARNINGS: RATED E for sexual content.

They flip through the long, slender book for what feels like days. Katniss fails to see how this is so important. Or rather, she’s frustrated with the subtle differences Peeta seems to notice in the shades of paint that escape her. Every now and then, his forehead creases and he points to two different plates.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “This one feels too cool for a bedroom. This one’s got more of a yellow undertone to it. What do you think?”

 

It has to be the artist eye that he possesses, because all she can do is shrug in response.

 

“They both look green to me,” Katniss says, wishing he’d just pick a color and get on with it. 

 

Initially, she had loved the idea. Repaint the house. They had already started redecorating, after all. On one of their mutual bad days, she had knocked over the stupid bust of some long dead Capitol politician in the foyer as she screamed at him to get out of her house. The bust had damaged the floor. Peeta had yelled back that there was no need to destroy things to make her point, that he knew she didn’t really want him; he was just the convenient choice. In a fury, she had yanked ineffectually on the heavy brocade curtains, yelling that he was blind if he didn’t know by now how she felt about him. That she felt suffocated by the house.

 

Peeta’s eyes had widened in an understanding she was slow to grasp. He gripped the curtains, watched her carefully as she stepped back, and tore the things, rod and all, off the wall.

 

“Then let’s make it ours. For real,” he had said. “Not theirs.”

 

Not the Capitol’s. Not a symbol of their so-called victory in the Games.  _ Theirs. _

 

So the bust and the ridiculous Capitol artwork were thrown away, burned in a bonfire that night as they roasted their dinner over the flames and their neighbors joined them, not wanting or needing explanation, toting gaudy monstrosities from ten of the other houses in Victor’s Village to fuel the fire, whatever food they could scrounge up to add to the meal. It had turned into a strange sort of party.

 

The next day, they went room by room. What could be repurposed? Given away? What did they want to keep?

 

The simple blue and yellow dishes stayed, but the fancy porcelain ones rimmed in silver were traded for yards of fabric they used to make fresh linens for their home. The study where Snow once threatened her was gutted and made unrecognizable, now a studio for Peeta to paint with massive floor to ceiling windows that let in light all day. 

 

The large bed in the master bedroom, the one Katniss had insisted her mother use when they moved in after her first Games, went to Delly and Thom as a wedding present, the first piece of furniture moved into their newly erected home. Insisting that the gift was too generous, Delly and Thom had reupholstered and refinished every last couch and chair in Katniss and Peeta’s home.

 

Katniss kept the slightly smaller bed in her room, it was the perfect size for the two of them anyways, and they had long since claimed it as theirs, the mattress embedded with their tears and sweat from nights of nightmares, whispered words of comfort. And eventually, the sweat and scent of passion, the echoes of moans and promises of love. 

 

The project continued for months, and room by room, they’d done exactly as Peeta suggested. Made the place theirs.

 

Halfway through the project, Katniss had shyly told him he ought to just move all of his things in already. The house was his, too. He’d hesitated at first, uncertain about the implications of what she was suggesting, but the next day, they moved his art supplies and the things he needed to bake from his kitchen into hers -- theirs. In a matter of days, they and several other members of the District managed to flip and remake Peeta’s old house into a hotel of sorts, a stopping point for families still returning to Twelve in the middle of the frigid winter and who needed a place to stay while their new home was built.

 

Still, the one thing Katniss and Peeta hadn’t yet been able to do was paint the walls in their house. Paint was a hard to come by commodity, at least the kind used for houses and building projects, since it was in such high demand throughout Panem. Peeta could still get paints for his art from DIstrict 1, but interior and building paint was another story. Until recently.

 

As soon as word reached them that District Six had gotten a plant open and running to produce things such as paint, Peeta sent off for a swatch book. And Katniss’ headache began.

 

The project had become a hassle almost overnight since Peeta insisted that they select the perfect colors based on a two by eight inch flip folio with literally hundreds of colors in two inch squares. How is she supposed to know what that shade would look like on their walls next to their furniture, behind Peeta’s paintings, in the dark, on cloudy days, on sunny days, on days when she wants to throw things at Peeta, like today, or on days when she wants to lock all the doors and drag him to bed and hold him hostage there…

 

Which is sounding promising right now if it distracts him from the damn paint swatches. Her lips curl up in her best attempt at seduction.

 

Glancing up at her, Peeta smiles slightly and then double takes before his smile turns to a stern scowl. Which he’s not very good at, since Katniss feels anything but intimidated by it.

 

“No, Katniss,” he says very seriously. “We have to pick a color first.”

 

“I thought we already picked one for the bedroom,” she says, sliding out of her chair and onto his lap, pushing aside the swatches.

 

“That was for the primary color. This is for the accent color,” he explains as she tilts his chin up so she can kiss his neck. “Stop distracting me.”

 

“That one,” she says, blindly pointing to one of the squares he indicated just moments ago. Peeta leans around her to note the color, and she sighs against his ear. “Peeeetaaaa.”

 

“Alright,” he says after marking the square with a pencil. “My attention is all yours.”

 

“You sure you don’t want to place the order first?” she asks, voice heavy with sarcasm.

 

He stands abruptly, knocking the chair to the floor, making her gasp as his arms loop around her, crushing her body to his. He lays her back on the table, his lips hot against hers as his hands start removing their clothing. His mouth trails over her chin and neck, pausing so he can suck on her collarbone, making her sigh before he continues down her body.

 

“I don’t know,” she moans, picking up the swatch book once more. “Maybe the other color would be the better choice.”

 

Peeta doesn’t even lift his head from her chest, where his mouth turns her nipples into tight peaks. He grasps the swatches and throws them over his shoulder as she laughs.

 

“You made a fine choice,” he murmurs.

 

************************************

 

“The paint is supposed to go  _ where?!”  _ Katniss nearly screeches. Peeta’s got the room taped and prepped, a canvas tarp covering the floor, the light fixtures covered in old sheets. They moved the furniture into an empty room yesterday, and today they’re supposed to start painting the bedroom.

 

“On the ceiling,” he repeats, pulling a sketch done in colored pencils from his back pocket and opening it to show her the effect of painting the ceiling. “Makes it warm and cozy, less sterile.”

 

It looks lovely. She’s also had more than enough sterile rooms with her brief stay in District Thirteen. Painted ceilings actually sounds wonderful, but she’s not going to admit that to him. Instead she scratches the side of her nose and scrunches her face.

 

“How exactly are we going to do that?” she asks, trying to keep the annoyance from her voice. She’s still sore from painting the kitchen two days ago. Now he wants her to crane her neck at odd angles on a ladder and paint a ceiling.

 

“On the ladders,” he says with a thread of uncertainty in his voice. “I tried to borrow some scaffolding, so we could lay down on our backs and paint, but it’s all in use in town.”

 

“Then maybe we should wait,” she says testily.

 

Peeta scratches the back of his neck and looks around at the torn apart room, the blue tape protecting the electric sockets and window sill and floor boards.

 

“Um, okay,” he says. “I guess we just move everything back for now?”

 

With a growl, Katniss picks up one of the rollers and climbs a ladder.

 

“You better make this up to me,” she says and smacks the roller in the paint tray Peeta filled and placed at the top of the ladder, blinking at the spray that splatters her shirt and glaring at Peeta when he snorts in restrained laughter. “Not a word.”

 

“Wouldn’t dare,” he says. She really wants to mar his smirk with a good swipe of this paint, but he’s already climbing his own ladder on the other side of the room, so she sets to work, grumbling under her breath each time she has to move the ladder to paint a new section.

 

It isn’t long before her neck and arms begin to ache. She pushes on until she can’t stand the burn in her arm anymore, tilts her head and rubs her neck, stealing a glance at Peeta and glaring when she sees how much progress he’s made. Already, his half of the ceiling is done. He’s moved on to touching up the corners and edges with a brush.

 

Not to be outdone, Katniss redoubles her efforts, and by the time she finishes her half of the ceiling, Peeta’s made it almost all the way around the edge of the room. Picking up a brush, she focuses on the small strip of white still ringing the light fixture. 

 

She’s so intent on her work that she doesn’t notice when Peeta finishes and comes to stand at the foot of her ladder. Spotting him there, she startles and he smiles.

 

“Looks good,” he says and reaches a hand up to help her. “Let’s take a break and get some lunch before we put on the second coat.”

 

While Katniss loves the sound of food right now, there’s something else she wants to do, to let this mad man she’s let move into her house with her know just how annoyed she is with him right now. Nevermind the fact that she willingly went along with this whole redecorating idea.

 

So with a slow smile, she reaches towards him, letting her hand still grasping the brush veer downwards, leaving a long smear of green paint across his cheek. Peeta jumps back in surprise.

 

“Oh you’ve asked for it now,” he says with a grin as she bites her lip and scrambles down the ladder. 

 

When her feet hit the floor, he cuts her off, already armed with his own brush. He smears a matching streak on her cheek as she paints one over his arm. They laugh and cover each other with smears of paint, heedless of the tiny splatters flung onto the walls. Katniss doesn’t really care about those anyways. They’ll paint the walls tomorrow and cover the splatters. Ducking to evade his grasp, Katniss paints a stripe across his backside, making Peeta yell in mock outrage. He drops his brush on the canvas tarp and grins at her as his hands undo his belt buckle.

 

“Peeta,” she warns with tremulous laughter caught deep in her throat. The mood shifts as his pants hit the floor and he retrieves his brush, lunges towards her and paints across her chest. She glowers and he smirks.

 

“Well,” she huffs. “This shirt is ruined.”

 

She grasps the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, flinging it aside. Around them, she can feel the air thickening, growing heavy with sudden desire. Peeta groans and steps towards her, ignoring her brush sweeping up the back of his neck as his lips attach to hers. She moans into his mouth as his tongue imitates the action, painting the roof of her mouth and the backs of her teeth with need.

 

Their hands tear at their remaining articles of clothing so that by the time he slowly lowers them to the canvas tarp covering the floor where their bed goes, they’re both bare save for the handful of paint streaks on their bodies.

 

Katniss gasps at the cold feel of the paint as Peeta adds one beneath her breast, then warms the area with the heat of his palm as he grasps the mound to suck on her nipple. She swipes her brush haphazardly over his back and he shivers against her. 

 

They kiss and paint, reveling in the contrast of the cool brush, the heated caress. She writhes beneath him, bucking her hips into his to get him to hurry up, needing to feel him inside her. He understands her silent pleas, pausing in the act of painting her leg to join their bodies together. He barely waits before he moves, paint covered hands gripping her hips to hold her at an angle. She shouts and arches into the motions, the crown of her head digging into the floor.

 

“Katniss,” he moans as her legs wrap around his middle. “Fuck, you always feel so incredible.”

 

She opens her eyes just a touch and smiles at the warm green canopy over her head. Smiling at what will be her view as she drifts to sleep or while they do this. Over and over.

 

“Peeta,” she gasps. “You should see this.”

 

“What?” he asks, his hips pausing enough for her to push off the floor. Getting the hint, Peeta shifts his arms and rolls so she’s straddling him. He squirms beneath her to settle his body and Katniss sits up so she’s not blocking his view.

 

“Our ceiling,” she says as she starts to move her hips over him. 

 

“Wow,” he whispers, sticky paint covered hands running over her sides and middle.

 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.

 

“Who cares about the ceiling?” he asks as he bucks up into her. “Although, you do look gorgeous against a green backdrop. I wanna see this every night for the rest of my life.”

 

She bites her lip, blushing at his heated words, but his hands keep her from retreating, urge her to keep moving. As the need builds, she gasps, knees and thighs gripping him as overwhelming pleasure spreads further through her limbs, consuming her in the need to move, to find the release she knows awaits her.

 

Peeta keeps whispering encouragement in sensual words as his hands roam her body, probably leaving more streaks of paint over her skin, but she can’t bring herself to care as the room sparks around her, a cry of ecstasy bouncing across the walls as tremors ripple over her and wetness pools between them.

 

“Peeta,” she moans softly, her body going limp as he rolls them back over to where they started and hikes her legs up high around his waist.

 

Katniss drifts between the bliss of fading orgasm and the tickling of rekindled desire as Peeta pumps into her, his lips caressing and teeth scraping over her neck as ragged moans and snippets of praise fall from his throat.

 

“Fuck, never thought we’d make it here…So good... Katniss... Fuuuuuuck... Need you... Make me so hard.... And greedy… Happy... Always...”

 

His words devolve to incoherence and gasping moans as she digs her nails into his back and squeezes her eyes shut, chasing a second release for herself. She reaches it just before him, her clenching walls and fingers, her high pitched scream, seemingly tipping him over the edge beside her.

 

As they lay there in the aftermath, bathed in the soft glow of sunlight from the windows and the green on the ceiling, Katniss runs her fingers through his hair, savors his harsh pants against her ear as he rests his head beside hers on the floor.

 

“Not sure that counts as a break,” she finally says and Peeta laughs, the sound joyful in their room.

 

“So we take a long break,” he says, lifting his head to kiss her. She briefly mourns the loss as he slides from her and stands, careful not to twist his prosthetic leg as he helps her up as well.

 

“I like the color, though,” she says and palms his chest, matching her hand to a smearing of paint there before winking at him. “You look good in green.”

 

“I can wear the other shade of green we picked out tomorrow, if you like,” he teases and pulls their bodies together for another kiss. She loves the sound of that idea, too.


	15. Not Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odesta!! Canon compliant piece from Annie’s POV, follows Annie through a series of dreams and events within the Mockingjay timeline. I am not responsible if you cry. Okay, maybe I am… 2,288 Words. Written May 2016. WARNINGS: RATED T, no other warnings but lots of angst

“I miss the waves,” I whisper softly, fingers toying with strands of copper hair. He smiles at me, the soft, adoring smile that the Capitol never got to see. This was something precious Snow could never take from me. Finnick’s mouth then stretches wide with a yawn.

 

“Dream about them,” he whispers as he twines our fingers together. 

 

We’re already pressed so close together, the narrow beds in Thirteen not leaving much extra space. I think of our bed back home in Four, tucked under mosquito netting and draped in white linens, scattered with sea toned pillows. Our sanctuary from the world on days when we can't get out on the water.

 

“Dream about the waves and we’ll be there before you know it,” Finnick whispers sleepily, pressing his lips to the back of my hand as he drifts away.

 

“Please don't go,” I murmur, not ready to sleep just yet, preferring to savor these last hours before he leaves for the Capitol. “I can't lose you to them again.”

 

I know he'll go anyways, because it's the right thing to do. Just like angering Snow just enough to make sure Finnick’s was the name pulled from the Reaping bowl, he was the one sent to the Quell to help protect Katniss and Peeta, was the right thing to do, instead of sending someone not entirely behind the fledgling rebellion. He thinks I don’t know about that, tried to keep it from me to protect me. But I know. 

 

Knowing it’s the right thing to do doesn't stop the panic from rising up within my chest.

 

“Annie,” his voice reaches me. “Annie, I love you. Know that. No matter what. I love you through all eternity. Through the storms and squalls, the gentle tides and the rip tides. Forever.”

 

His last words to me before he boarded a train, headed for the Quell.

 

My eyes open as my body jolts awake and I sit upright fast enough to make my head swim. Automatically, my hands divide. One to grasp the sheets I know are empty, will never be warmed again. The other cradling my still flat stomach. I feel cheated. Taunted by my own dreams.

 

The darkness swirls around me as the train sways. I curl in on myself, a sob caught in my throat as the voices start talking again, the litany of horror and screams that resides in my head.

 

“No no no no no no,” I plead and cup my hands on my ears. “I can't do this without you, Finnick.”

 

He should be here. Or at least on the other end of this trip. He didn't even get to see the waves one last time before he died. The last ocean he felt on his skin was the false one made in an arena. I didn't even know I was pregnant the morning he left.

 

I fling aside the covers and stalk out of the train, marching down the corridors and wringing my hands as I try in vain to find my center. He's gone.

 

Eventually, I collapse in a corner and let the tears fall in silence, let the rocking motion of the train soothe me. I lose myself in memory.

 

Awareness returns slowly as a pair of rough hands tug on me.

 

“She can't be here,” a measured voice says.

 

“Yeah we get it, meat brain. We're nothing but a bunch of freaks to you. Let go of her and go annoy someone else. I’ll take care of it.”

 

As I wake, my weight is transferred to slender shoulders. The faint smell of oil and pine.

 

“Jo,” I say weakly as she stumbles with my weight on her shoulders. I force myself to move my feet, to carry enough so we don't fall.

 

“Come on,” Johanna says, clearly annoyed. “Let's not give them another reason to drug us up and lock us away from the sunlight.”

 

“Or the trees,” I say as we reach my compartment. Johanna’s steps falter. She bites her lip and takes a deep breath, expelling it in exasperation.

 

“Or the ocean,” she bites out angrily and kicks my door open.

 

“I know you miss him, too,” I say as I sit on the edge of my bed. I expect Johanna to run. Or say something nasty to protect herself. Instead she plops down beside me and stares at the wall. “Have you thought about--”

 

“Don't,” Johanna cuts me off. “Don't talk about it like he's still alive.”

 

Anger streams through my veins as our train hurtles us both towards the Capitol, the place where nightmares are born.

 

“You listen to me, Johanna Mason. Finnick wouldn't want us to fall apart. We have to keep going. To  _ live _ . For him, for everyone else we've lost. For  _ ourselves _ . So please just think about what he offered you. I don't care what differences you and I have, I will honor his promise to you.”

 

Slowly, Johanna’s lips twitch and she fingers a gauze sack hanging by a string from her wrist. She lifts it to her nose and smells. Then she holds it out for me to sniff. Confused, I stare at the thing.

 

“You know, I thought  I was safe. That they couldn't hurt me because there was no one left that I loved.”

 

I sniff the satchel, a vague memory of distant districts and towering pines overcoming my mind.

 

“You still have friends, Jo,” I whisper on the scent of the trees. She nods.

 

“I'll think about it.” I hope she does. I hope she finds her way to Four to make a new start for herself. It’s what Finnick wanted for his friend.

 

A shout sounds out across the beach and brings me up from the depths of dreams, to the warmth of the summer sunshine and crash of waves. 

 

I gasp as another contraction tightens my belly, bend over and count. Breath and count. When it finally passes, I stand and waddle back across the beach towards Victor’s Village and my home.

 

“Oh little one,” I moan as I pause on the front steps, gripped in another contraction. “I wish your father were here.”

 

I cry out with the pain, and the front door flies open as Lilly Everdeen steps out onto the veranda. Unable to form words, I reach for her. She grasps my hand, and I feel the bond of understanding, see it in her eyes as she leads me inside then up the stairs to my bedroom. In that moment, I am selfishly grateful that Lilly came here with me instead of returning to her home in Twelve. 

 

She begins a cadence that we follow to breath and walk.

 

“I was starting to worry about you,” she says with the twang that sounded so rough and foreign to me at first, but has since become the sound of comfort.

 

“I needed to listen to the waves,” I explain.

 

“Next time,” she scolds lightly as we reach my bed and I lay down with her assistance. “Next time, don’t call me to say you’re in labor and then run off to the beach.”

 

“There won’t--” I wince and yell as the pain folds me in half. Lilly recites one of the poems we picked for this, to help calm me as the pain worsens. To give me a rhythm to breathe to. I flop back on the bed after the pain recedes. “There won’t be a next time.”

 

My eyes flicker to hers, and I see the depth of our kinship. The men who went to death before us and the depth of the grief left behind, as deep and untouchable as the bottom of the ocean.

 

“You’re young,” she says softly, although with no conviction. I shake my head and Lilly frowns, clearly uncomfortable with this topic. “I’ll go get what I need from the kitchen.”

 

While she’s downstairs, a bold knock echoes through the house. I listen as Lilly answers the door and then smile as loud footsteps stomp up the stairs. A suitcase thuds to the floor in the hallway.

 

“Well, Gorgeous,” Johanna states and puts one hand on her popped hip. “I see I got here just in time for the fun part.”

 

I can’t help but chortle a little, the humor making this contraction easier to bear.

 

“Your timing is ridiculous. What are you doing here, Jo?” I ask although I already know. Part of me, the part that misses Finnick so badly I feel his absence as a knife in my gut at the mere thought of him, wants to recreate a part of what he had with this woman, long before I wandered into his life.

 

“Cashing in on that promise,” Jo says and settles herself on my bed, setting the mattress to bouncing. “You didn’t think I would, did you?”

 

“How’s Seven?” I ask instead and smile as she glares at me.

 

“Shitty and painful,” Jo snipes. “How’s Four?”

 

“Shitty and painful,” I say, making Jo crack the first half smile I’ve seen on her face in ages. “I’m glad you’re here.”

 

Lilly walks back in carrying a steaming kettle, rags, a pair of pristine scissors, and a bucket of ice. She eyes us for a moment, clearly trying to gauge what sort of relationship we have. I don’t even know that myself.

 

“Here,” she tells Johanna, handing her the bucket of ice. “Feed these to her.”

 

“You trust me not to make you choke?” Johanna smirks.

 

“I trust you not to murder what’s left of Finnick,” I whisper.

 

“Damn, Gorgeous,” she snarls as she shoves a piece of ice in my mouth. “You’re a deceptive piece of shit aren’t you? Broken and yet still able to go straight for the jugular.”

 

“Just give me more ice, Jo,” I say with a smile. She’s one to talk, after all. I can’t help but remember the words she spat at me that day in the Capitol. During that infernal vote.

 

The sun peaks and begins its descent. We walk. I eat ice and fight through the pain. Lilly soothes. Johanna snarks. The pain grows apace with time until I can no longer distinguish the crest of one contraction from the start of the next. The world dissolves in streaks of color, bursts of sounds. And pain.

 

With the pain come memories, fast and swirled together. Images placed on a plate and then spun so fast, they melt together. Indistinguishable. Grey cinderblock walls. A net of sea oats draped over our heads. Waves and roiling storm clouds. Shimmering bursts of sea green. Laughter. Tears.

 

I vaguely hear Lilly telling me to push as Johanna props me up, curses and swears at me not to give up yet.

 

Then I see him, just for a second, gliding through salt spray, pausing to grin at me.

 

“Finnick!” I scream, my innards torn asunder.

 

And then, Lilly’s soothing words.

 

“A boy, Annie. He’s a boy, and he’s gorgeous.”

 

“Of course he is,” Johanna says as she lays me back on the propped up pillows, gently brushes the hair back off my forehead. “Haven’t you seen his parents?”

 

For some reason, this makes me laugh hysterically. I laugh until the exhaustion in my limbs takes over and all I can do is snort while Lilly wraps my baby in a soft green blanket.

 

“You should feed him soon,” she says.

 

My arms reach for him, pull him close to my breast as Johanna helps move my nightgown. For a moment, he gums fruitlessly at me and then I wince when he latches on and suckles.

 

“Hey there,” I whisper, holding back the tears and the voices. The fears and doubts. I cannot contain the wave of sadness, the feeling that something elemental is missing right now. 

 

“Johanna,” I cry out. She leans into me, wrapping her arm around me.

 

“Right here, Gorgeous. What’re you gonna name him?”

 

“I...” 

 

Truly, I have no idea. A part of me that was too terrified to believe I could be graced with this last piece of Finnick, this last gift to remember him by, to keep our love alive through the eternity he promised, was unwilling to give a name to our child. To even consider it, lest my last great love be snatched from me too. As I stare down at him, overcome with love as old as time, as old as breathing, I am powerless to think of one suitable name.

 

“Because I was thinking about Snothead for a nickname, so maybe find something that goes well with that,” Jo says and then I’m laughing again, resting my head on her shoulder.

 

“Thank you for being here,” I say softly.

 

“Yeah,” is all she says.

 

Eventually, my son finishes his meal, and after a bath, during which he protests mightily, we lay him to sleep in his bassinet. Lilly helps me shower and change into a fresh nightgown before laying me back in bed.

 

Alone, listening to the deep breaths of my child, I wait for sleep, and instead find myself caught in the twilight. Feeling Finnick’s fingers brush across my forehead and down my cheek.

 

“I wish you could be here, Finnick,” I murmur with tears leaking onto my sea-toned pillows, the mosquito nets blowing softly in the breeze. “To meet our son. To swim the waves with me. I want so badly for you to hold him. To know him.”

 

The echoes of the surf travel up to my ears as I drift down under their pull, into slumber, only halfway fearing my dreams tonight. Just before oblivion takes me, I hear his voice, riding on the waves as they break against the rock.

 

“Not yet, my love,” he whispers. “Not just yet.”

  
  
  



	16. Some Walks You Don't Have to Take Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay but pre-Epilogue, based on a request for a drabble with Peeta or Katniss comforting each other. 1,716 Words. Written July 2016. WARNINGS: RATED T, no other warnings.

Her fingers tangle in the wire and even though she’s done this a hundred thousand times, it’s just too much today. Katniss thrashes her hands about with a growl on her lips and then a soft cry as the wire cuts into her skin.

 

When she finally manages to disentangle herself from her own snare, she flings the jumbled mess onto the ground and tries to cry. Not a single tear escapes her burning eyes as she turns her back on her task and trudges towards the district line, missing her best friend and hunting partner. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, the feelings rush over her swift and unstoppable.

 

Her skin itches along her burn scars, making the wounds fresh and new. A soft wail rises out of her throat when her hand catches on a thorny bush, the bleeding slices now joined with miniscule scratches. The wounds are superficial at best and easily healed. Nothing like the patchwork of burns that adorn her flesh, the jagged, vaguely apple shaped scar on her arm from the Quell.

 

As she lifts her hand in the fading light to examine the injury, she tries to separate memory from nightmare. The blood oozes over her hand, a writhing red snake.

 

She shakes her head and moves faster, knowing only that she needs to get  _ home. _

 

Inexplicably, her feet take her to the square, or what will be the square again one day. She hated the idea at first, rebuilding over the ashes of the past with the newer version of the same life. It would still make her think of Reapings and whippings, truncated farewells and burning bodies.

 

With a violent shudder, Katniss makes her way around several of the new buildings under construction until she finds the one she’s looking for. The melted ovens have been cleared out to make room for the new bakery’s foundation, which was finished just last week. Fresh lumber supports now rise up on all sides as the walls take shape.

 

“You’re in early,” Peeta greets her as he jumps down from the raised concrete foundation, tugging his work gloves off before taking a deep drink from a water skin.

 

“I--” she waves her hand in the air, looking for an explanation to give him. His brow furrows and he sets aside the water skin to reach for her.

 

“And you’re bleeding,” he says as he captures her hand in his. “What happened?”

 

“Snare line,” she says, biting her lip as he turns her hand over to examine all sides. When he looks up at her, Katniss looks away, knowing he’ll probably read it in her eyes anyways. Longing. But she’s still avoiding naming the who or the what she longs for and certainly not the why.

 

“Give me a second,” he says before turning to inform the crew he was working with that he’s headed home and they’ll pick back up tomorrow morning. The men and women shout acknowledgements and happy laughter floats up from somewhere in the reemerging square.

 

Life goes on. Somehow.

 

She wrenches her hand from his grasp as they walk towards Victor Village, perhaps a little more forcefully than needed since Peeta easily lets her go. Her steps falter. Peeta shoves his hands in his pockets. They walk silently.

 

When they reach her house, Katniss drags her eyes over the primrose bushes. They’re doing well. Taken to their new soil. Flourishing. Despite being uprooted and moved. All because she and Peeta are careful to tend to them every day, even if it’s just to check for parasites or tug up a weed before it invades.

 

Katniss leads through the door, unsurprised when Peeta follows her into her kitchen instead of splitting off to continue three doors down to his own house. He starts the water in the sink, washes his hands quickly before grabbing hers and shoving it beneath the icy stream. She gasps, but Peeta doesn’t relent, carefully cleaning her wound. His arms stiffen and a few tremors pass through them as Katniss watches thin streamers of crimson streak over the sink and down the drain.

 

Her eyes hone in on his face and she braces her feet, ready to run. He’s not turned violent since returning to Twelve, although there have been days when he would stand abruptly, knocking over a chair or slamming a door in his haste to escape her presence. But he would eventually come back, bearing a loaf of warm bread in his hands, purple circles under his eyes, and an apology on his lips.

 

Reaching out to him tentatively, Katniss places her hand on his forearm and squeezes. He freezes and looks over at her. The cold water continues to splash over their joined hands.

 

“I can take care of it,” she whispers. 

 

“Doesn’t this usually happen the other way around, Dr. Everdeen?” he asks. When she can’t answer, Peeta shakes his head and shakes the water off his hands as he steps away from her, grabs a towel from a drawer and sets her hand on top of it on the counter as he turns off the water. Then he gently dabs away the droplets clinging to her skin, careful not to touch the cuts directly with the towel. He bends over and blows gentle air over the laceration. Goosebumps spring forth over her arm, up her shoulder, as the shiver travels down to her toes.

 

“Where do you keep your ointment?” he asks and Katniss has to swallow before she can motion towards the cabinet across the kitchen.

 

“In there,” she tells him, not mentioning that just a short year ago, he knew that. Knew his way around her kitchen as well as he did his own. She doesn’t mention the stab in her heart at the knowledge that he’s relearning his way through her life as well through his own mind.

 

Is there no one left who knows her better than she knows herself? She selfishly wonders as Peeta opens the cabinet, sifting through the jars until he finds what he’s looking for.

 

He pulls out a jar filled with a pale blue paste, twisting his wrist to look at the entire thing. Just as she opens her mouth to tell him that’s a pain relief and muscle relaxer ointment, not an antibiotic, Peeta sets it on the counter and returns to searching the cabinet, coming back to her with the correct jar this time.

 

Opening the jar, his wrinkles his nose at the odor and Katniss can’t help the snort of laughter at his face. His eyes sparkle with reciprocated laughter in the brief look he gives her before dipping his fingers in the paste and then smearing it over her winding cut.

 

Her breath catches at how gentle his touch is. Raindrops on caves. Poison fog scabs covered in green goo. And she leans towards him. Stares at his creased brow and golden lashes. The puckered pink flesh of burn scars, creeping towards his eyes, along the side of his face.

 

Everyone during the war worried about her vocal cords. All that mattered whether or not the Mockingjay could still sing. But her...she’s just grateful his eyes didn’t suffer the fires too.

 

When he looks up at her abruptly, she jumps and scowls, disturbed at being caught staring so openly at him. Again.

 

“Bandages?” he asks, and she barely hears the word over the thudding of her heart.

 

“Second drawer from the left,” they say at the same time. Katniss blinks and can’t look away from the pools of blue searching hers, almost begging for her to confirm that he’s remembered correctly. But not just the location of the bandages in her house, but that he once knew this room well enough to not need to ask.

 

“That’s right,” she whispers and Peeta leaves her once more with her thoughts in a tangle. 

 

He returns with the bandages and she walks him through wrapping her hand and securing it. Then he orders her to sit while he makes tea. They sit at the table drinking it. The silence between them now comfortable. More so than it was a month ago when he showed up in Twelve and planted a floral memorial on the side of her house. She watches him over her mug, looking away when she thinks he’s about to catch her staring. Again.

 

Her spine prickles deliciously, and this time, when she looks up at him, he holds her gaze.

 

“That first jar I pulled out,” he says. “It’s an ointment your mother made for us while we were training for the Quell. To help with sore muscles. Real or not real?”

 

“Real,” she says so fast it bursts from her lungs in a puff of disbelieving joy. That he made so much progress in the Capitol between the bombs and his return that he can remember things like this without her prompting or anyone leading him. Insignificant details that could add up to the picture that was once their lives.

 

Peeta smiles at her, sweet and just a little shy, and welcome warmth suffuses her. She’s bursting with it. Words spilling forth.

 

“You had this idea that we should be prepared for the Quell. So we trained. Like Careers. You, me and Haymitch.”

 

“Gale was there too,” Peeta says and she spirals back towards the snares she couldn’t get to work. It must show on her face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

 

He places his mug on the table and takes her hands in his, joined in the middle of the planked surface, and her heart aches as she stares at their twined fingers. Another table. Another time. Another memory lost or subverted in his mind and so clear in hers. This time, it’s her who rests her forehead on their joined hands in turmoil. Their voices still in her head.

 

_ Peeta, how are we going to kill these people? _

 

_ I don’t know. _

 

“I had trouble with my snares today,” she admits to him.

 

“It’s okay to miss your best friend,” Peeta whispers, his lips brush over the crown of her head and she freezes. The touch so familiar and yet so new. And yet, his intuition at what eats at her heart is perhaps the sweetest feeling of all.


	17. Cagamosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, within the Mockingjay timeline. Cagamosis - an unhappy marriage. 455 Words. Written August 2016. WARNINGS: RATED T, it’s angsty. You’ve been warned.

**Cagamosis** \- An unhappy marriage

 

* * *

 

The bride is wearing black. The groom wears shackles. Three colorful birds flutter around the bride, fluffing her skirt and sleeves so that the black stripes on her underwings are visible. The dress is a marvel for this place, stitched together over hours of crying and whispered words. A direct negative of the dress revealed in flames.

 

Katniss swallows and grips the bouquet of garish blood red flowers. She hates them. Hates the dress. Hates the bouquet. Hates that they asked her to do this. Hates that she has no choice. Hates that she’s forcing Peeta into this, too. Hates the tense twittering of her preps as they finalize her dress and her look, all the while darting glances at Peeta and the iron cuffs that keep his hands folded tightly in front of him.

 

Plutarch assured her that this would be quick. They only needed a few minutes to film the hasty vows. Maybe one kiss, if Peeta didn’t come unhinged just standing beside her, forced to smile and pretend that this marriage is real.

 

Venia declares her done and as she steps towards her future and always husband, a shudder wracks Peeta from head to toe. He bites his lip and his hands flex in the shackles, wrists straining against his bonds. She opens her mouth to tell him something, but the words stick in her throat as he lunges for her.

 

She screams and flings aside the yards of silk binding her into her bed, sits there heaving for air in the chill of Thirteen’s underground labyrinth. Her heart pounds in her throat, lodged next to the words she should have said months ago. Her hands grapple with empty sheets beside her and eventually burrow under her pillow and find the pearl, draw it forth from it’s hiding spot.

 

“Katniss?” Prim’s soft question comes from across the small room.

 

“Just a dream,” Katniss croaks, her vocal chords remembering the pain of Peeta’s hands on her throat. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“We could talk --”

 

“Go back to sleep, Prim,” she repeats, and rolls over with her back to her sister. The only person she wants to speak to is a living, breathing nightmare. Rubbing the pearl over her lips, Katniss tries instead to remember the handsome boy in a tuxedo, declaring to the world that she was pregnant. With their child. She clings to happier times and happier thoughts with him, hoping they will infect her dreams.

 

She stares at the small clock on the wall, at the date. It’s early, but later today, Finnick and Annie will be married. Her fist clenches around the pearl and she squeezes her eyes shut. She’s glad it’s going to be them.


	18. Mamihlapinatapei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay. Mamihlapinatapei - the look between two people who love each other but who are unwilling to make the first move. Haymitch POV but it’s technically still Everlark. 1,073 Words. Written August 2016. WARNINGS: RATED T+ for implied sexual content, no actual smut. Also some swear words.

**Mamihlapinatapei** \- The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move

* * *

  
  


They wonder why Haymitch stops visiting. He grouses to his geese that they pester him, knocking on his door, inviting him to dinners that he skips. While he knows he should go and have a decent meal, the tension in the air has grown to be too much for even him to bear. And he knows those two fucking kids better than most. Has dealt with far worse brewing between them.

 

He knows their reactions and how to read their faces. Their smallest flickers of body language. Which fights they’ll win. When they’ll be the Victor and when they’ll be the vanquished, although he’s still working on how best to clean up the pieces when they shatter. Never really figured out how to do that for himself, after all. 

 

He knows how to present them to an audience, be it shallow or bloodthirsty or craving the bittersweetness of youthful love. Knows the best way to manipulate them into what they ought to be doing, although he’s loathe to use that skill ever again since it turned out so well the last time. Forget that it was the only way to keep them both alive, because damnit, they were both supposed to make it out of that arena again. He’d fucking counted on her to do what he could not. 

 

Keep. The. Boy. By. Her. Side. 

 

He’d thought she’d do that at all costs, but then things went all wrong and the outcome was nothing short of unspeakable. With the boy drowning in a sea of hatred and the girl wearing a necklace of bruises on her neck and much deeper ones on her heart. Both of them shattered.

 

Which is why he also knows that they’re stupid.

 

And apparently so is he, on this fine spring evening when the alcohol has run out and the familiar nightmares beckon from the shadows, and he knows that the light of their shared home -- because who are we kidding? He knows the boy spends almost every night there by now, his own home a hollow shell of empty rooms and echoing demons of the past. He knows that light in their home, that fire that somehow always seems brighter in the darkest moments, is exactly what he needs.

 

That doesn’t mean it’s not stupid of him to intrude.

 

He can’t decide if he should hurl obscenities, innuendos, or silence at them. Maybe he should just fucking tell them how dumb they are. Bluntly. Because they’re fucking thick. Can’t they see it? Can’t they fucking see it? An entire nation saw it. Even a despot with a twisted mind and even more twisted heart, if Snow’d even had a heart, could see it.

 

Love.

 

Hopeful, boundless, joyous love.

 

And all they do is look at one another. Idiots. What he wouldn’t give for five more minutes with his girl. The girl he’d thought he’d marry one day. The one Snow stole away from him. And here these moronic kids have a chance to grasp that future, that hope, that love, that he will likely never know again...and all they do is stare.

 

He gets it, oh he truly does. The spectre of Fear and Games and War and Torture hangs heavy in the air, a pungent foil to the fragrant blooms of spring that have begun to sprout all across the District. What a waste.

 

He wants to curse their stupidity. For not grasping that shimmering life with both hands and clinging to it tighter than they would the ladder of a hovercraft removing them from an arena. The place of nightmares. Yes, they’re stupid to not race towards one another and the inevitable future they possess littered with children and happiness and safety and fucking  _ love.  _

 

Do they know how rare that is? To have something that beautiful and wondrous survive the horrors that they’ve endured? It’s more precious than the pearl Sweetheart clung to in Thirteen, because of course he fucking knows about that. It was his  _ job _ , his  _ duty _ , to know everything about these two kids, and whether they wanted him prying and paying attention or not, he did. He fucking did. And he’ll be fucking damned if they don’t get their shit together soon and stop looking at one another like the world begins and ends in a shy smile over a loaf of bread, paint splattered fingers brushing dirt stained ones over a tasty meal.

 

Sparking gray and shimmering blue, dancing around and past one another. Barely meeting or acknowledging, but when one is occupied elsewhere, oh how their eyes and entire beings spark and bloom.

 

_ Just kiss her already!  _ He wants to scream at the boy.  _ You fought your way through fucking torture to get here! _

 

_ Tell him the truth before it rots away inside you!  _ He wants to shake the girl with words.  _ Don’t make the same damn mistake twice! _

 

He keeps his silence, though, knowing that they would never shift the careful balance that they’ve cultivated when they have an audience. Not even when that audience is just him. Just their drunken, washed up mentor.

 

So he eats his dinner, grunts his thanks, and leaves them be, to rummage in the darkened cupboards in his home and hope he finds a bottle. With luck, he does, and cracks it open and sits on his porch to stare at a sky free of faces or the echo of cannon or the screams of ghosts he wishes he could let go but never will.

 

He’s just about to nod off on his porch when a new sound rends the night, and he startles awake, knife clutched in his hand, searching for the threat. Then he hears it again. The moaning and wailing not of the dead or the tormented, but of those caught in a torrent of release. He chuckles and retreats inside his home, figuring it’s the least he can do for the idiots. Remove their unintentional audience. He just hopes they aren’t still  _ complete  _ idiots. That this wasn’t just the flash fire result of the lust of youth.

 

But in the morning, when he spots them walking with hands entwined and heads bent together, lost in their own world, and the boy’s smile radiates warmth and joy and relief, Haymitch knows that they’ve finally stopped being stupid.


	19. A Thousand and One Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, Peeta POV following every Everlark kiss. An experiment in 2nd person narration. Basorexia: an overwhelming urge to kiss. 4,619 Words. Written August 2016. WARNINGS: RATED T+ for references to canon typical violence, torture, angst, and implied sexual content

**Basorexia** \- An overwhelming desire to kiss

 

* * *

 

 

_ I kissed Peeta a thousand times during those Games and after. - Catching Fire _ , Chapter 24

 

* * *

 

 

**_One_ **

 

A smile. A small one, as your cheeks heat with the words you just spilled forth and what they could reveal. The fear that she’ll see. That she’ll  _ know _ . And that she’ll hate you for it. The old fear that kept you silent, choked back the words for years, rising up in your throat and choking you once more. Because it was always better to suffer with the possibility left by not knowing than to take the risk and live with the certainty of rejection.

 

And then the stutter-stop-restart of your heart as she steps closer. Closer on her tiptoes, her dark lashes closing ever so slightly as her warm lips press to your jaw. And you wonder how something so simple and innocent as a kiss on a bruise could tear through you in such agony.

 

**_Not Quite_ **

 

She’s the fire of the sun and the storm on the horizon, and even though she’s glaring at you, there’s still that underlying desire. To press your lips to hers. To know if they’re as soft and warm as you remember them. As you’ve imagined them. Your jaw aches with frustration and the memory of those lips on your skin as you try to make her understand. 

 

You’re going to die. 

 

You know that. Have accepted it. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it. And it doesn’t mean you stop wanting to hear one kind word from her. Or from wanting to know the taste of her before you go. But her understanding is more important. So you tamp down the urge and grip the metal rail between you and the shimmering city below and try to make her understand, so that maybe, just maybe, once you’re gone, she won’t think of you with the anger now raging in her eyes. Maybe someone will remember you with kindness. Perhaps even fondness. Maybe it’ll be her. But probably not.

 

She’s gone with a swirl of white cotton and biting words, and your heart sinks to your toes that the last words between the two of you might be bitter ones. You hold tight to the rail and refuse to follow her. To impose your stupid crush that you’ve never managed to shake any further on her than you already have. Your mother is right. You are stupid and worthless.

 

As the door slams shut behind her, you grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut too, willing the tears pricking the back of your eyes to stay put where they belong. The time for tears is past. You have a purpose tomorrow. If you’re going to die, it’s going to be for a reason you choose. Not theirs. 

 

And you’ve chosen her.

 

**_Two_ **

 

She found you. 

 

You didn’t think she’d even bother. Not after the way she looked at you, condemning you from high up in that tree. Really, you should be dead by now. The mud and the cool proximity of the stream couldn’t hide the ache. The chills in your bones and the fire in your brain that meant that fever had set in. That while the cut itself and the blood loss had not killed you yet, the infection surely would. Not surprising. You've no idea how many days have passed since your phony alliance shattered with phenomenal results.

 

It worked, you remind yourself as she stares at her handiwork, a tangle of vines that you guess must be meant to conceal the mouth of your cave. She’s still alive. Found a way out of that tree and through the shining terror of the venom, taking out at least a few of the Careers in the process. That many fewer obstacles between her and home.

 

Only five of you left.

 

There’s a stab of guilt. They were just kids, too. You spent enough time with them to learn a little about them. Enough to make you sick at the thought of their deaths. Twisted and hateful, they might have been, but you know that’s not really their fault. The Capitol made them that way. Bred them and trained them to be monsters.

 

Maybe you are one, too, for manipulating them the way you did.

 

You shake that fear away and call to her. The frustration melts off her face as she kneels next to you, her fingers kissing your forehead and it’s like a dream. Maybe it is a dream. You thank her and try to tell her what you need to say, struggle to get the words from your pain and fever riddled body as she stops you again and again with her own words.

 

And then with her lips.

 

A soft brush of moth’s wings and then it’s over. It’s not the first time you’ve kissed a girl. Those few furtive caresses that you regretted afterwards and could never name why. But this kiss lacks the drop of the stomach and flutter of the heart. The flash of heat you think should be there. It’s the fever, you’re sure. Your body too sick to respond the way it ought.

 

She forbids you to die, and that’s when your heart finally flutters. You know you’ll probably die, despite her wishes, but you think it might not be so bad now.

 

**_Three and more_ **

 

You wake to a silver fog. A retreating pair of eyes, disappearing into the mist and you jump. Frightened. Because your mind knows you’re supposed to be afraid. Then you blink and the fog begins to dissipate. Again and it clears enough for you to recognize the eyes as they emerge, the face hovering over you. And the smile is on your face without thought or command. 

 

_ Katniss _ .

 

She holds up her prize and offers you broth, carefully spooning it down your throat. You can’t remember the last time someone made a fuss over you like this. Have they ever? You wish you could do as she asks, but you’re drifting in and out of the fog, her words muted and distorted. Unable to tell if you’re awake or dreaming until her lips press fervently to yours, startling you into opening your mouth. The warm spoon and the nourishing broth jolting you further to consciousness until the fog and the broth are all gone.

 

But as she sets the pot aside, exhaustion takes over. You try to reach out for her, wanting to ask her to kiss you again, to make sure this is real. The fog drifts back across your eyes and you reluctantly sink into its waiting arms.

 

**_Twenty-Two and Twenty-Three_ **

 

It’s been too long. She’s been out too long. Maybe you did something wrong. Did she say the burn ointment helped with infection too? You thought she did. But maybe you were wrong. Maybe you were delirious and made that up.

 

She can’t die now. She can’t die now. You’re both too close to home. Already, your fever has broken. You can think clearly for the first time in days, and all you can think is  _ Not her. Not her. Not her. _

 

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She wasn’t supposed to die trying to save you. You sit and watch. Feeling helpless and staving off hopeless with both hands. Check her bandages. Try to keep her feet warm. Check her socks and her shoes. Still wet. Her forehead. Not bleeding. You think.

 

And you wait. Listening to the rain and the thudding of your own heart.

 

Then she stirs, and you’re so overjoyed, you reach out and caress her cheek, swallowing back the need to kiss her awake and demand answers for her brash actions. Instead, you temper your voice and call to her.

 

The thrill of seeing her eyes again, sharp gray and clear. The color of the rainclouds outside the cave, eclipses everything else. The answers can wait as you make her eat and drink water. Take care of her the way she did you.

 

You manage a kiss. Just one. Swift and alarming at the cold that frosts her lips as she wishes to go home. One more she’s unaware of, after she falls back into sleep. A kiss pressed to her forehead in gratitude that she’s not going to die just yet. That there’s still hope for her, and now you, to make it home.

 

**_Twenty-four_ **

 

You almost don’t believe her words or the vulnerability shimmering in her eyes for a brief moment before she shutters them. Hides from you. Or maybe from them. But she risked her life to save yours. And you don’t care if there’s a camera in here somehow, you want an answer of some kind. Need an answer. You don’t risk your life for someone who means  _ nothing  _ to you. Especially not here with death lurking behind every tree branch.

 

So you lean over and kiss her.

 

Lips finally warm and thoughts finally lucid. Gentle heat that spreads then finds a flash and nearly spirals out of control. It erases every other kiss before this one. A vortex of need so great, it terrifies you. No one needs that sort of pressure placed on their shoulders. So you hold back. Hold back. Then pull away, wanting more. Needing more. But knowing it might be too fast. Too soon. You content yourself with one soft peck on her nose.

 

You notice her forehead is bleeding again and needs to be taken care of. That’s far more important than your need to kiss her in every way imaginable.

 

**_Thirty_ **

 

You should have known. Should have known they’d never let you both live. It’s okay, you tell yourself as tears start to stream down her face. It’s okay, you try to tell her through her desperate pleas. Something you never thought you’d hear. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen her cry. Not for real. She’s too strong to show that kind of weakness. Not even here, in the place where nightmares are born.

 

And a part of you can’t believe she’s offering to die in your place. But you can’t kill her. She has to know that. And you can’t watch her die either. So you rip the bandages from your leg and sway with the dizziness as the blood begins to drain from your body. Try to reason with her as your heart shatters anyways. Even though you knew this weeks ago. You knew you were going to die.

 

Because a part of you selfishly doesn’t want to leave her yet and it’s splintering you in two.

 

Then her eyes widen and her hands move and the berries glisten and you reach out to stop her because she  _ can’t _ . She can’t die before you. Not like this.

 

_ Trust me, _ she whispers as she pours half of them in your hand and there it is again. The stutter-stop-restart of your heart as you realize what she’s suggesting. What she’s offering.

 

They deserve it. They need to know they can’t -- shouldn’t -- do this. Not to Rue nor Thresh or even Cato and Clove. Not to her. Not to you. So you kiss her in agreement and turn and count to three.

 

There’s a vague sound of trumpets as she yanks on your hand and you spit the berries back out. The cool taste of lake water that she forces you to swish in your mouth to clear out the juices of the berries. Your body yanked and tossed and zapped and gripped and moved about mindlessly. A puppet subject to their whims. And after that, everything is lost in sparks behind your eyelids. 

 

Everything but the sound of her screeching your name.

 

**_Thirty-One_ **

 

You didn’t expect to be this lonely. You expected to be dead. Instead you wake missing a limb. Slave to their dictates as they order you to stand. To walk. To deal with it. You can do it. You’re a Victor. Fight through the pain and discomfort.

 

But you’re not supposed to be alone.

 

You ask about her, and your questions are ignored. Rebuffed.

 

You suppose you should be grateful that you’re alive. And in a morbid way, you’re not really alone. They return at night. The ghosts. The ones you killed. The ones you watched die. The ones whose deaths you didn’t stop. And the ones whose deaths you had a hand in orchestrating. All to make sure she went home instead of them. You’re dying wish.

 

Wish granted.

 

So you tap your foot impatiently as they dress you and clothe you and primp you and gush over how romantic it all was, and all you can think about is how badly you need to hold her. To make sure she’s alive and well. That the ghosts are worth the outcome. 

 

Grip your cane as they announce everyone else and tighter as the platform lifts you into the blinding lights. Blink and try to find your bearings.

 

Then she’s there. Just ten feet away. Ten feet that you’re not sure you can walk on this foreign metal limb. But you don’t need to, because the instant you smile at her in relief, she flings herself towards you, with smoke in her eyes and candlelight draped around her. She collides with you and you drop the cane to hold her, lean into her and kiss her.

 

And that’s all you can do is keep her close. Her lips on yours the only thing preventing disbelief from swamping you. The warm feel of her, still alarmingly thin, but alive, sparking beneath your fingertips as your ears pound with a dull roar, keeps you to tethered to earth. To  _ life _ . And you feel stronger with her there. Not alone anymore. You believe you can face whatever else they throw at you as long as she’s there with you and alive.

 

A hand intrudes and you shove the owner away, unwilling to be cheated of this kiss or the storm of emotions you finally let loose and pour into her mouth. Silent no more. Stutter-stop-restart.

 

**_Sabbatical_ **

 

She grips the edge of the window as your home slowly comes into view. And she won’t look you in the eyes. But she’s somehow managed to find the center of your very being and rip it out.

 

An act. Not all of it, but she wouldn’t tell you which parts were real. So you imagined the worst. None of it was real.

 

Stupid, worthless creature.

 

Alone. With the ghosts.

 

It’s fine.

 

You know how to be alone. In spirit if not in reality. Can’t be that much different, can it?

 

But as she slowly turns those quicksilver eyes on you and the train halts and the cheers of your home, your people, rise up over your own dull pulse, you hold out your hand to her. She flinches at your words, but places her palm in yours. You thinks it’s trembling, but then maybe that’s you. Because it takes every last piece of your strength not to smash your mouth into hers and demand the truth in her lips through touch if not by words.

 

She blinks and so do you. Then you both turn to smile and wave. And continue the lie.

 

**_Thirty-Two_ **

 

Six months.

 

Six months of deprivation. Marked with countless restless nights filled with the screams of the dead at night and the silence of opulent solitude during the day. Six months of guarded stares from your mother who no doubt still can’t believe the lives her son took. Whispers of  _ actually has a spine _ shatter you further.

 

And you thought there was nothing more she could say or do to destroy you.

 

She has no idea.

 

And the only person who does, lied to you. Played you for a fool.

 

But the loneliness. The wretched loneliness is too much to bear.

 

Stutter- as she runs towards you, raven hair a beating wing behind her.

 

Stop- as she collides with you and you spin her, your balance lost on the ice and you fall. 

 

Restart- as her lips find yours and the deprivation ends.

 

No more, you promise. You’ll find a way to get over yourself. Because you still believe that even if she doesn’t love you, she must care at least a little. In the arena and after, you believed what you wanted to believe. She was a dream in the midst of a nightmare, and you fell for the promise she represented. The life you could’ve had. But that doesn’t change the fact that she raced headlong into a bloodbath to save you.

 

No more of this distance. You’ve missed these lips, that soft whimper you’re not sure she’s cognizant of making when you kiss, the smoke and rain of her eyes, the music of her laughter. The bite of her wit and the fire in her veins. All of it. You’ve missed her all too much to let her go again.

 

**_The Only Time_ **

 

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. You repeat it over and over in your head, because in a way, you stole her chance to have a life with him. Her friend. Her confidante. The one who knows her better than she’ll ever consider letting you know her. You didn’t mean to do that. You were supposed to be dead, after all. She should have been here alone. With him waiting for her on the other end.

 

That thought makes you dizzy with nausea. No one should have to face this atrocity alone.

 

So the question slips out before you can stop it. She squeezes your hand, a reflex, you think, and tells you  _ Yes _ . And it shouldn’t, but your blood sings. Jealousy returns to rest and you fight back the instinct to turn and kiss her without the hovering cameras, doting fans, or expectant presidents watching. To solidify and reaffirm that at least in this, you know her better.

 

But the signal is given and the moment passes. As you descend down the stairs joined at the hands, you remind yourself that touches like that can be superficial and empty. A hundred kisses or a thousand. They mean nothing without real love behind them.

 

**_The Hundreds that Never Happened_ **

 

You’re drowning in screams and terror. Expectations neither of you can meet. Seas of angry faces. Ghosts. Murder. All of it too much, and all that keeps you from succumbing is the feel of her beside you in the darkness. Like in the arena. Protecting one another from the dangers that descend at night, these of the mind and not of the body, although you wouldn’t know that from the way the both of you are losing weight and hiding dark circles under makeup. Portia frets and you wave her off, claim it’s just the sounds of the train keeping you awake.

 

On the nights when you’re the one to wake, drenched in sweat with your heart palpitating, gasping for air, you face a new kind of fight. The one to keep your mouth to yourself. Because in your bones, you know that a single, soul-felt kiss from her could be enough to banish the darkness.

 

But it’s not your right. Not your place. So you content yourself with holding her close and burrowing your face her neck.

 

**_One hundred and fifty-eight_ **

 

This should be a happy kiss. She’s wearing a ring. Promised to marry you. But the Capitol has perverted anything resembling a future or a dream. Debased it until it becomes a horror. Fake and gaudy just like them. A hundred kisses or maybe more have conspired to numb you to the joy you should be feeling. She doesn’t really love you. How could she?

 

But she’s acting giddy and maybe that means they at least succeeded. Maybe the ones that they need to protect are safe for now.

 

It’ll have to be enough.

 

**_One hundred and fifty-nine_ **

 

There will be no last minute, desperate tricks. You will die this time. But everything is different. Somewhere between the last arena and this one, trust and friendship somehow blossomed. And that is all you can allow to bloom. She needs to know that this is what you want, so she won’t mourn you. Won’t crumble or blame herself. Be strong.

 

Who knows what sort of world it will be when she flies free of this arena.

 

The roof. Her warmth next to you in bed. The slight caress of her hands over you as you both slept or pretended to sleep in the hopes it would become real have spoiled you, though, and you can’t help but close your eyes and kiss her farewell. Just in case.

 

It’s soft and gentle. She kisses you back, despite the lack of audience. No fire. No spark. Warm and tender. Perfect.

 

You’ll see her soon.

 

**_One hundred and sixty-one...and so many more_ **

 

She tells you she needs you, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted to hear, but it’s too late. Not now. Not here. How does she always manage to find the best way to break your heart in two? 

 

Your words of protest die on your lips as she kisses you, eyes open, determined. You watch as she fights back, which is what you wanted, but not against you. Relentless. She’s relentless in swallowing whatever else you could think of to say, and you feel yourself surrendering, pulled in by her warmth and everything else that just makes you want her heart, her love, that much more. And you’re dying soon anyways, so really what does it matter? You can argue with her later.

 

So you give in. Indulge yourself. And you kiss her back. 

 

It’s the cave only warmer. The stage only quieter. The train and the beds and all of it rolled into one as your body responds, enfolds her closer. There’s hands and lips and tongues and breaths and whimpers all around you. The tang of salt in your nostrils and the taste of her flooding your senses. A demand that she communicates through touch. 

 

The longer you kiss, the stronger it gets. From glowing embers to flowing flames, and finally an unquenchable inferno that flows between you. Demanding and starved for nourishment. Your heart answers, stutter-stop-restart. And you know now what that really feels like. The jolt to the system. But this is infinitely sweeter. Her mouth insisting on everything and willingly accepting as you lay it all on the pyre for her. Everything. Always.

 

Only this time, it doesn’t feel at all like a lie. Not even a little. With no fever and no hopes to cloud your judgement, you wonder briefly if it could be true. Does she know? Did she understand your carefully chosen words? Not part of the Game. Could she really need you?

 

Lightning ends the storm, and you stare at one another, dazed. Unblinking. Until your ally severs even that. You help her to get comfortable, to rest, and then you speak your last words. Crafted not only as a reminder of what she has to look forward to, but as a sign of your return to the Game.

 

As you settle onto the sand to watch, your eyes are drawn back to her. Your lips longing for one last kiss. To have the ability to freeze all the hundreds of moments and live in them forever. You dig a toe in the sand and breathe a deep lungful of the humid air.

 

That is not your future. You have no future. And she needs to let you die. So she may live.

 

You thought that would be easier to accept than this. You thought you had come to terms with it. But that was before she kissed you like that.

 

**_Nearly Midnight_ **

 

You want to scream and rage. To break the alliance and race after her. But it’s not the plan. So you stand there and accept her kiss. Fists clenched at your sides, palming the handle of a knife. The touch is too brief, and you think to call her back, but it’ll be okay, you tell yourself. She’ll see you at midnight. And then you’ll indulge in another kiss like the one on the beach, convince her to live. You’ll think of something. You have to, you tell yourself as you watch her back as she recedes into the jungle.

 

**_Lost Count_ **

 

There’s a war in your brain. 

 

Kill or kiss. Kill or kiss. 

 

Lights flash and voices warble, asking questions you don’t understand. Fear pumps in your veins as strangers in white coats float around you. Poking. Prodding. 

 

Safe, they tell you. Safe. They keep saying that word.

 

Blink, turn, look.

 

_ Katniss _

 

Bitter joy fear love courage despair hope hate.

 

You lunge and run, not knowing which it should be. She made you trust her. You want to kiss her. Hold her in your arms. Then she destroyed you. Crush her.

 

So you do.

 

Ten kisses with your fingers on her neck.

 

Shock. Betrayal.

 

Darkness.

 

Kill or kiss.

 

There’s a war in your brain.

 

**_Start over_ **

 

You hate yourself. You hate her more. You shouldn’t hate. You can’t stop.

 

They tell you there’s venom in your blood. Poison in your brain. They’re going to fix it.

 

They turn you numb.

 

Gradually, you begin to feel again. The anger still there, if not as sharp. And you realize, you’ve forgotten how it feels to kiss. Like so many other things.

 

You try to ask your oldest friend. She looks at you with soft pity in her eyes, and you spit in rage and rejection.

 

Stupid, worthless creature. Everyone knows it.  _ She _ just made them all see it.

 

**_One_ **

 

There’s a war in your brain.

 

Kiss or kill. Kiss or kill.

 

You’ve been winning that war. Right up until the hissing beasts unlocked the primal urges deep inside. Protect. Protect her. Guard her. Climb.

 

Who claims victory in a war? How do you know it’s real?

 

Kiss or kill.

 

_ Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. _

 

She pleads with you, the catch in her voice slicing through the poison fog clouding your mind, driving you insane. Tugs on the cuffs, the pain a reminder of all you’ve endured by her side.

 

Then her lips.

 

There’s a war in your brain and you’re losing it. Until she says the three words. The ones that are her call to you. Out of the fog.

 

_ Stay with me. _

 

Your reply rolls off your tongue. Unthinking unbidden. As much a part of you and of her as your lips and the memory of her taste. Stutter-stop-restart.

 

It hasn’t changed.

 

_ Always. _

 

**_A thousand and one...you think..._ **

 

You’ve kissed her a hundred times at least, maybe a thousand. Each of them golden sunset moments you wish you could freeze. But freezing removes the heat. And each kiss lives in your breast, a warm pocket of joy, trust, desire, love, hope. They bloom and grow. Plant roots and spread out into a tapestry of colors intricately woven together. Blending, reshaping. A few stand out in your memory. Maybe there are those that stand out to her as well. Beacons of light calling you home. To her. Or her to you.

 

So when a kiss in the night spirals in prismatic waves, both of you following the feelings rather than the touch, and it finally ends with your breath harsh and humid between you, wonder still tripping through your entire being and triggering every nerve, her fingers sparking down your spine and her hair a black crown of a different sort of victory all around you both, her eyes certain and luminous, content, you ask the one last thing you need to know.

 

And when she tells you  _ Real… _

 

Stutter-stop-restart.

  
  



	20. Once Upon a Winter's Morn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay, written December 2016 for Love in Panem’s Winter Challenge based on the prompt “Snow” as well as an inbox request for a drabble involving Everlark and hot chocolate. 2,490 Words. Written December 2016. WARNINGS: RATED T, brief dealings in depression and PTSD, nothing too angsty.

The snow storm arrived with no warning, several weeks earlier in the year than usual, dropping three feet of thick powder onto the ground of District Twelve, and trapping its residents inside their homes. As several made attempts to leave their newly built homes for their various jobs in the early hours of the morning, they discovered how ill-equipped they were. District Twelve had plenty of shovels for construction, pointed and spade shaped for breaking ground, but few people had ordered flat edged snow shovels yet.

 

Each of the Twelve houses of Victor’s Village came equipped with a fully furnished garden shed. Not that Victors were expected to perform such remedial tasks as gardening or shoveling snow from their walkways. Generally speaking, they could afford to hire someone to do it for them. But the Victors of Twelve had never been just your average Victor.

 

They started their mornings much as they had all done for the past few months. Peeta rose early, gently kissing Katniss’ forehead and brushing aside her hair to ask if she wanted breakfast before she went into the woods. On a gloomy day with snow blanketing the earth, Katniss tended to prefer the comfort of her bed, though. Such a day made her think too much about where she spent her last winter.

 

Peeta’s face fell as she shook her head and rolled away from him to cling to the pillow. Today would be one of the bad days. She hated to disappoint him like this, but the layer of snow coating the windowsill held bloodstained memories that wouldn’t let her go. He stalled as long as he could. Tried to coax her from the covers with the promise of hot cakes doused in syrup or a few of the cheese buns leftover from last night’s dinner or the offer of a scented bath. Nothing worked.

 

Unable to delay his leaving any longer, Peeta headed down the stairs and Katniss buried her face in the pillow. A flicker of the desire to get up and follow him, to hug him before he left, sputtered and then died. She thought she heard him say something as the front door creaked open.

 

A crash and his yell echoed up from the floor below, and without thinking, she tore through the house, grabbing her bow and arrows as she went. When she reached the door, she had the weapon loaded and the string pulled taut, ready to fire into the maw of whatever mutt had attacked him. Her heart pounded in her chest, constricting with fear between beats.

 

“I don’t think shooting the snow’s gonna help any,” Peeta said, giving her a wry smile from where he lay on his back. His prosthetic was caught in a small mountain of snow that had gathered in front of their door.

 

Katniss heaved in air as she tried to make sense of the scene. It wasn’t until she acknowledged the absence of any real threat that she could get her brain to work. Slowly, she lowered her weapon.

 

“I tried to climb over it and slid,” Peeta explained, grasping his leg and carefully extracting it from the avalanche.

 

“Why didn’t you just get the snow shovel from the cellar?” she asked testily. Her heart still thundered in her chest and she wondered for the millionth time if she’d ever be free of the fears of the arena.

 

“Because I’m late,” he said as he stood, brushing snow from the leg of his pants.

 

Guilt swamped her, and she nodded. With a mumbled, “wait here,” she rushed down to the cellar, ignoring the burn of the frigid stones beneath her bare feet. It took a minute or two to find the snow shovel, and her feet were completely numb by the time she returned upstairs.

 

“Thanks,” Peeta said as he accepted the shovel. Katniss stood in the doorway, arms crossed to ward off the chill as Peeta shoveled his way out of their house and across the porch. The wind must have blown the snow at an angle because while their porch was blanketed in the stuff, the house across the way, currently occupied by two Seam families, had a completely clear porch.

 

Craning her neck as Peeta proceeded up the walkway towards the street, she noted that none of the other houses had yet shoveled their walkways. Not completely unexpected. Peeta usually headed into the bakery well before dawn. She puffed out a breath and watched it curl in the cold air. Shivered and ignored the numbness setting in her feet and ankles.

 

“Here,” Peeta said softly, handing the shovel back to her. “You should go climb back in bed and warm up.”

 

Taking the shovel and leaning it against the porch wall, she nodded. They stared at one another, the moment awkward. He looked like he wanted to say something else to her. Katniss’ mind had moved on at this point, though. A task needing to be completed. With the conviction of one with a purpose, she stood up on her toes and pressed a swift kiss to his lips. The touch was ice cold, the warmth drained from their skin by the winter morning. Still, his eyes widened slightly and her mouth curled up in a soft smile.

 

“See you this afternoon,” she murmured.

 

“Yeah, see you this afternoon,” he replied but didn’t move. Katniss listened to the hush of the world, the strange muffled feel after the sky had emptied its frozen powder over the landscape. In the silence, it was easy to imagine that she and Peeta were the only two people on the planet. She didn’t want that, but the thought was nice for just a moment. A frozen moment.

 

As though they’d both arrived at the same memory at the same time, they moved. Arms lifting and then winding. Bodies pressed flush together and relieved breaths puffed over necks. She clung to him for too long, given how late he already was to start his day. His gloved hands ran up over her back then down again. As silently as they had come together, they broke apart, and with a last kiss to her cheek, Peeta turned and walked down their freshly shoveled path.

 

Once he’d disappeared, Katniss sprang back into action. She replaced her bow and quiver where they belonged and then dressed in warm layers. Her feet were still numb but at least they wouldn’t get worse. Braced for hostility, she marched outside with her shovel in hand. She used it to make her way up the walk of the home that was her target then used the handle to pound on the door.

 

“Haymitch! Get up!”

 

Glass shattered inside and she didn’t care. She kept pounding, determined that if she was going to force herself out of the house on a day like today, so would he.

 

“We’ve got work to do!”

 

He grumbled more, but twenty minutes later, as she shoveled the Cartwright-Johnson walkway, Haymitch emerged from his house armed with his own shovel. He threw a few well chosen obscenities at her, but continued what she’d started, shoveling his way to the pen where he kept his geese. They honked at him, demanding breakfast, and Katniss smiled when they received the same sort of loving endearments she’d grown used to receiving from Haymitch.

 

It was a strange sort of symphony. The scrape of the shovel on the walkways. The puff of snow landing in a heap off to the side. The honk of a goose and then the muffled curse of a man who’d rather be drinking followed by the taunt of a girl who’d rather be hiding in bed. Halfway through their work, Katniss knew she should have put several houses worth of space between her and Haymitch.

 

“Your aim still isn’t worth shit!” she shouted at him as she brushed off the clump of snow he’d just launched onto her back.

 

“At least I can go the distance, sweetheart!” he yelled back before he started hacking and coughing. She glared and bent to resume her shoveling, supposing that this was probably better than moping in bed anyways. By now she knew that if she did that on the bad days, it’d only worsen. The same could be said for Haymitch and his liquor.

 

As they continued to work, the residents of Victor’s Village stirred. A few joined in the shoveling and by mid-day, Katniss’ back ached and her stomach roiled with hunger, but the group had made it into town and had dug out a few of the families living in newly constructed homes.

 

“Here,” Thom said to her with a smile, hand outstretched for her shovel. “You take a break, yeah? I’ll bring this back to your place later on.”

 

“Thanks, Thom,” she said with a curt nod before trudging home. She didn’t mean to be rude to him, but the thought of returning home frightened her a little. The woods weren’t much of an option. She’d dressed for labor, not for trudging through the high banks of snow that inevitably waited for her in the woods. But the house held ghosts and echoes. She was getting better at keeping them at bay, but to do it in the gloom of a snowy afternoon... by herself?

 

Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she headed towards them anyways. She thought about going to see Peeta at the bakery, but the darker sides of her mind made excuses about how busy he’d be.

 

When she arrived home, the windows were all dark. Sunken sockets of despair. That line of thinking would do her no good, so as soon as she entered, before she’d even stomped the snow from her boots, she moved through the house and turned on as many lights as she could justify. Although Twelve had just barely managed to get its power infrastructure in place in time for this storm, she still hated to waste any of it. Too much light could be a stark reminder of a time when there was never enough.

 

That done, she went into the kitchen. Having skipped both breakfast and lunch then spent the better part of the day in manual labor, she knew she needed to scrounge something together before a headache set in. She’s barely begun warming her sandwich in a pan when the front door opened, emitting a blast of cold air.

 

“Peeta?” she called out, leaning back from the stove slightly, even though she knew she still wouldn’t be able to see around the door jamb enough to spot the newcomer.

 

“It’s me,” he called back as the stomp of his feet shook the floors. “Not a lot of business today, so I closed up early. Not to mention the train didn’t make it in today. They weren’t expecting the snow either.”

 

He came into the kitchen then, hands cupped over his mouth as he blew some warmth back into them.

 

“No tea?” Katniss asked and he shook his head. The rest they could do without. They knew how to manage hollow days and how to ration, but she’d grown accustomed to having a supply of decent tea on hand. They’d run out and more should have been arriving on today’s train. Resigning herself to weak tea brewed with pine needles, Katniss prepared to ask Peeta to bundle back up and go collect a handful from outside when he ducked into the fridge.

 

“I think I can manage a substitute, though,” he said.

 

“What have you got in mind?” she asked, flipping her sandwich and pulling the bread back out to make another one for Peeta.

 

“Hot chocolate,” he announced, emerging from the fridge with a container of the heavy whipping cream he kept in stock to experiment with richer desserts in his hand and a smile on his face. It slipped off when he spotted the look on her face.

 

She hadn’t indulged in the Capitol dish since their last train ride. Headed for the Quarter Quell.

 

“Katniss, I’m--”

 

“No, it’s fine,” she insisted. Squeezed her eyes shut and searched for pleasant memories associated with the rich drink. 

 

Peeta swirling rolls in the decadent liquid. A bruise on his jaw. Before their first Games. No good. A night when she couldn’t sleep on the Victory Tour. Unthinkable. On the train to the Quell, the morning after watching Haymitch’s Games. When she’d felt confident in their abilities to bring Peeta home alive. Better but not great. Prim after making snow angels, before the Quell announcement rocked their world. Even worse.

 

“Katniss,” Peeta murmured near her ear and she turned into him. His arms enfolded her into their warmth and she heard the click of him turning the burner off so she didn’t scorch her sandwich.

 

She breathed in his scent and they swayed slightly in the kitchen. His quiet apologies rolled over her hair as she slowly unclenched her muscles and relaxed into the embrace. When the tremors passed, she laid her cheek on his shoulder and stared at the side of his neck. The curl of his hair at the nape. He needed a haircut. Centered once more, she nodded in affirmation.

 

“What do you need?” he asked as they stepped apart. She reached out to pick up the cream and handed it to him.

 

“To make a new memory for this,” she said with an encouraging smile. It felt forced, and Peeta still looked wary, but he took the cream and stood next to her at the stove, heating it in a saucepan while she warmed their sandwiches.

 

Fascinated, she watched as he added sugar and broke off dark bits of a chocolate bar, stirring the mixture together. The chocolate formed swirls as it melted and he nodded when she dropped in a few bits of crushed peppermint candy.

 

As they settled in front of the fireplace with their sandwiches and cocoa, Katniss thought that perhaps they should feel guilty for skipping out on work for the afternoon, but she couldn’t make herself feel it at all. They ate in quiet, watching the flickering fire Peeta had stoked back to life, the fireplace of their home flanked by two windows. 

 

“It’s snowing again,” he commented, and she nodded. The fat flakes drifted across their window. It looked like all her hard work would be for naught. But that was okay. Shoveling snow wasn’t so bad. It gave her something to do. Something to focus on instead of the memories.

 

Peeta stretched his arm across the back of the couch, and she took the opportunity to curl up against him, her mug cradled in her hands. As they sipped the cocoa and watched both the snow and the fire, she leaned into him with a content sigh.

 

There was this, too. This was something good that came out of the snow. And it turned out to not be such a bad day after all.


	21. Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, post-Mockingjay, written May 2017 for everlarkbirthdaydrabbles based on the prompt “Katniss takes Peeta into the woods.” 1,631 Words. Written May 2017. WARNINGS: RATED T, brief dealings in depression and PTSD, nothing too angsty.

The woods still make him think of hidden dangers. Wolf mutts, fire projectiles aimed at his head, buzzing insects, and terrible images. But as he stands on what used to be the edges of the District, a hasty fence in the process of being erected to keep the predators out, he feels drawn to the trees. To the shadows that hold the secrets to life and sustenance as much as they do to danger and death. What if he went out there? Just walked through the gate and went into the woods. He could do it now. Nothing would stop him. He’s faced two arenas, his own death, been tortured to shreds and slowly put himself back together.

 

He could do it. He could survive it.

 

When he arrived at the train station, or what was left of it, he’d left his bag behind, needing to walk unencumbered. To see the damage done to his home. To learn just how much work needs to be done. He hadn’t gotten far before the destruction and the evidence of mass murder got to him and his feet carried him someplace where freedom and peace could be found. The borders. The woods.

 

He shakes his head to free himself of the strange thoughts. He’s been standing here awhile, fingers laced through the diamond pattern of the new wire fence. His leg aching where flesh meets prosthetic. When he turns to leave, to face the real reason he returned home, he sees it. A patch of yellow.

 

Curiosity wins and he slips through the gate, carefully closing it behind him. He’s breathing hard by the time he reaches it, but he’s almost certain. The memory is hazy and difficult to grasp, but a pair of blonde braids and a comforting smile swims to the surface and helps it along as he touches the fragile petals. He smiles, too.

 

Primrose.

 

It takes longer than he’d like to return to the heart of the District and locate a wheelbarrow not in use to cart the dead to the mass grave in what used to be a meadow, but eventually, he covers the bottom with a layer of soil before carefully digging out the roots, leaving clumps of soil to protect them during the journey, short though it may be.

 

He’s in the midst of digging a trench to plant them in front of her house when she comes running out and halts abruptly when she sees him. Her response leaves him curious and a little hurt, although he figures he should be used to that by now. What strikes him as far more important is her state of neglect.

 

Has no one been taking care of her these past months? Have they just left her to stew in her memories and live the nightmares over and over until she dies of exhaustion or grief?

 

He keeps an eye on the house, telling himself that it’s not spying. They protect each other. But she won’t let him protect her if she feels crowded or rushed. He watches because he can’t remember how he knew before. How he just seemed to know what she needed. That was lost to the venom along with the memories. 

 

So he watches. Watches her leave for the woods. Sees her return, carried in a wheelbarrow similar to the one he used for the Primroses.

 

When he works up the courage to approach, he hears wailing and screaming through an open window. He can’t bring himself to intrude on her grief, so he sits on the porch and cries with her, his head buried in his hands. He cries for everything they lost and everything that they never had. Eventually, she falls silent. 

 

He waits a little longer before letting himself into her house. When he finds her asleep on the couch with the cat curled up on top of her, he lifts them both into his arms. The months of abuse followed by months of inactivity during his therapy have weakened him, and yet she’s still light as rain in his arms. It startles and frightens him.

 

Carrying her up the stairs strikes a chord deep inside him. He focuses on laying her in her bed, removing her boots. A quick glance around the space and he finds it, sitting on her dresser. Carefully, he opens the cover, allows himself this one intrusion because he’s certain that it’s not really an intrusion. The fourth page convinces him. 

 

_ ‘You’re a painter.’ _

 

He traces the painted lines with a shaking finger. He painted this. With his eyes closed, he can see afternoon sunlight and her sprawled on her belly on the bed, her wrapped ankle lifted as she watches him. A smile? Maybe. The scent of cheese buns and tea. Laughter from downstairs. A breeze from the open window.

 

Opening his eyes, he stares at the broken girl in the bed. They were happy together once. He already knew that, but the venom poisoned everything. Or maybe not. Another glance at the book and he thinks he knows a way. They should finish what they started in these pages. It will take time, but one day, he’ll ask her to take him past the fence to see the woods and the plants in all their living glory.

 

* * *

 

He never gets the chance. She suggests it herself nearly two months later, her body still recovering, although the progress is visible. He rises early the next day, packs a lunch in a sack that will be easy to carry on his back. He considers bringing his pencils and paints, but decides against it. He’ll bring them next time. This time, he just wants to look.

 

She’s waiting for him when he reaches her house, sitting on the steps of her porch and biting her nails. Without a word to him, she stands and starts walking towards the fence. He follows a few paces behind until she slows her step and looks over her shoulder, a clear invite to walk at her side.

 

Through the gate and into the treeline. His palms begin to sweat as the trees close in around him. He glances around, searching for the monsters that live in the shadows. He hasn’t been in here since he found the primroses, and never this deep before.

 

Something brushes his hand and he jumps, his pulse pounding until he looks down and sees her hand close to his. Did she--?

 

As he stares, she slowly moves their hands closer again, murmuring soothing words he doesn’t hear. But it’s the tone that matters, not the words. She’s the broken one and yet he’s the one falling apart. Or maybe they’re both broken. She continues to soothe until her fingers brush his. Without a thought, his hand turns and welcomes her until their palms meet and their fingers thread together.

 

He thinks of cool waters surrounding him, rushing over his skin, washing away fear and filth and doubt. When he looks back up at her, she smiles. He sees the waters in her eyes, clear and catching fragments of sunlight as they scatter through the trees. Her already olive toned skin alive with shades of the earth. The dark soil that nurtures growth in the strands of her loose hair.

 

Squeezing her hand, he nods to let her know that he’s okay. They keep walking, their hands joined. Slowly, he breathes easier and his eyes dart around, unable to take in all the details quickly enough. The scatter of leafy plants and dead leaves on the floor. The loamy scent of the earth awakened from beneath its winter blanket of snow. The ridges of the bark on the trees. The burst of new life from buds on trees and shrubs alike. Sponges of moss over trees and rocks. Fractals of light and shadow. The colors. Vibrant greens bright as day, fresh browns richer than chocolate, pale blues and deep grays in comforting shades of warmth. Splashes of red, yellow, purple bursting to life in crevices and strange places, wherever they can break through the shadows to reach for the light. All of it familiar and all of it new.

 

They walk until she sits on a fallen log, gently pulling him down to sit next to her. He begins to pull the food from his pack and offer it to her. It isn’t until they’re both occupied with eating that he realizes that other than her chasing away his fears, they’ve barely said a single word to one another all day.

 

He’s deep in the forbidden woods with the girl he was onced convinced wanted him dead. At this moment, she sits with her half eaten slice of bread spread with goat cheese in her lap, her head tilted back as she listens to the sounds of the wind and the birds through the trees. She looks...happy.

 

With a deep breath, she looks over at him. For a moment, sadness flickers in her eyes and he leans towards her at the same time she leans towards him. They naturally come to rest with her head on his shoulder and his cheek rubbing her hair. She hasn’t touched him in months. His hand still bears the crescent scars from it. As they sit there, her hand finds his again. Her thumb traces over those same scars and she sniffles a little. He lets her cry. Because even that is part of the healing. He closes his eyes and cries with her, silently, as they listen to the life of the woods around them.

 

One day, maybe not today, it will be better. They will be able to walk into these woods and laugh together, but for now, they both need this as much as they need each other.


End file.
